Maybe Morelli
by AutumnDreaming
Summary: Joe Morelli is facing the most difficult decision of his life. Can he live a cop's life and still have Steph? With Ranger closing in, he has to prove he's still the man of her dreams. A Stephanie Plum mystery from a cop's perspective.  Cupcake ending.
1. Chapter 1  In the Beginning

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found online at **behindthebadge (net, not com).** It's a must read!_

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

My name is Joseph Anthony Morelli. At least, that's what it says on my birth certificate. In truth, I've always wished I was someone else. As my name indicates, I'm an Italian. I live in Trenton, New Jersey, where I was born and raised in a little area called the Burg. My mother, Angela Morelli, is the epitome of a Burg housewife. She's thin with piercing black eyes. She keeps a spotless house, cooks like a gourmet, never misses a chance to go to mass, and never divorced my worthless, alcoholic father. His name was Anthony. My older brother, Tony, was named for him. My other brother is Paul and my sisters are Catherine and Mary. You can't get more Italian or more Catholic than the Morelli's.

When your life seems that laid out, when the expectations about who you are going to be are made so clear to you at a very young age, I think it takes the mystery and excitement – the adventure – out of life. I didn't want to be a Morelli. I never did. I left New Jersey and traveled the world in the U.S. Navy. I probably should have stayed in but, after cooling off for a year or two, I found I was homesick for the only life I had every known.

Somewhere along the way, I had made a promise to myself. I may have done more than my fair share of playing the field just like the other philandering Morelli men, but I was not going to be a Morelli in the archetypal sense of the word. I had been careful to avoid attachments, so I wasn't philandering. And if and when I decided to tie the knot, I would be faithful, God help me.

I had been raised by a strong line of great women who had been betrayed by Morelli men. I loved these women. My life had been filled with the love and affection of my mother, my grandmother Bella, my sisters, my Aunt Loretta, my godmother Tina Ragusto, and my great-aunt Mary Elizabeth, Bella's younger sister, who despite being an ex-nun drank highballs and smoked like a chimney. Finally, there was my aunt Rose, who left me her house in the Burg when she passed away. This gift of love provided me with one more proof that my lifetime residency in the Burg had been set in stone before I was born.

These women had been the source of the only permanent relationships I had ever known. That being said, they were also the source of my greatest fear and discomfort. I knew that behind those smiling lips that had given so many careless kisses to me as a little boy were hidden the lashing tongues of vipers. The catty complaining and maliciousness with which they spoke about Morelli men, and at times men in general, made it clear to me that upon my transition from their darling little boy to manhood, I would also be cast from their midst and regarded with contempt.

That was my real reason for joining the Navy. I was buying time, trying to figure a way out of the pattern of my family's multi-generational warfare. I came up with a tentative plan, summoned my courage, and took my honorary leave of the United States Navy. Upon returning to the Burg, I accepted my fate and set my course heading for the only acceptable career alternative open to Italian men in the Burg. I became a cop.

I thought this was the appropriate profession to differentiate me from the Morelli stigma while maintaining my mother's proud heritage as a Burg Italian. My mother was proud of me for becoming a cop. I knew that. And her approval mattered even more to me now that my father, Tony - a.k.a. Rocco Morelli - had passed and could never be appeased.

Every little boy dreams of being a cop. Most of us boys lived on the other side of the law as teens. I was particularly restless and always getting into trouble. Regardless, Burg cops made an impression on me. I can remember attending a funeral for a Burg cop when I was about 15. Everyone I had ever met in my life, and a lot of people I hadn't, were there. Everyone was crying and paying respects to the dead man and his family. That was when I realized what a tight-knit group cops were and how respected they were in the community. But most of all, I was struck by the image of the dead man's father standing stoically by the casket and telling everyone who shook his hand how proud he was of his son. I was so jealous of this cop who had been killed in the line of duty. I thought that if I had died on the way home from that funeral and they held a viewing for me, my father would have told the handful of people that attended what a worthless waste of his time I had turned out to be. At least I can rest easy knowing that he won't be saying anything at all at my funeral. That's a load off my mind.

After joining the force I started out as a patrolman, worked my way up to vice, and today I am a seasoned homicide detective. I've been thinking a lot about my own funeral because I've attended two funerals for fallen officers in as many weeks. They were both killed in the line of duty, and each time their proud fathers were present. I was glad for them, sad for their families, and worried for myself and my extended family of officers.

I was the detective in charge of both cases, and even I was at a loss as to why they had died. One was killed right in the Burg while responding to a domestic disturbance. Apparently the parents were fighting and the ten year old boy inside the house had loaded his father's gun and shot the officer when he walked in the door of the house. It was not a prosecutable case. The second was similar. A fourteen year old boy had shot a patrolman in the head when he was pulled over for joyriding. He was thrown into Juvie, but he wasn't going to be charged as an adult even though most people agreed he should have been. Previous Supreme Court rulings had pretty well eliminated that option.

Since the department had been cut short, we had a very green patrolman out on the streets. I had picked him up on the police scanner as I was heading home. Even though my job description was "Crimes Against Persons", I decided to take pity on the kid who had just arrived at the scene of what was doubtless a fatal auto accident on Route 1, a major freeway prone to fatal accidents.

I pulled my SUV in behind the black and white and flashed my badge at the patrolman. We walked to the first vehicle, which was lying its side. I reached through the broken windshield and determined the driver, a large male, was dead. I could only reach the ankle of the female passenger, but I felt a weak pulse. I ordered the patrolman to help me remove the driver so paramedics could gain access to the female. We worked together to pull the driver's limp body through the windshield and laid him out on the ground in front and to the side of the vehicle so the EMT's would have room to work.

I ordered the patrolman to go up to the road and assist with directing traffic since he was in uniform and I was not. He didn't move. I repeated the instructions, but he was white as a sheet. I reached out to pat him on the back and tell him he was doing okay, when he bent over and threw up.

I had forgotten what it was like to feel like that. I had not realized how far I had traveled down the road that hardens the man inside the uniform. When had I become one of them and how much of myself had I lost along the way, I wondered? I knew that in many ways I had become my job, but I was okay with that. Being a cop was a lifestyle, not a nine-to-five. I was always on duty, and that was fine. People liked Morelli the cop. I hadn't been Joseph Morelli the womanizing Italian with an arrogant smile for quite some time. I admit I made a lot of mistakes along the way, though, and some people were loathe to let me forget about it.

That went double for Stephanie Plum. As I drove home, I thought about our long history together. I was two years older than Stephanie. We had grown up only two blocks apart. My brothers and I were known as the little perverts of the neighborhood. This reputation was mostly owing to our possession of a large stash of Playboys and some much racier material our father kept in the garage which oddly never housed a single car. He mainly took us out to the garage to inflict corporal punishment. It was here that we also learned to abuse ourselves. And, at age eight, I began abusing girls, including Stephanie Plum.

I talked her into accompanying me into the garage on the pretense of teaching her a new game called "Train". She was the tunnel and I was the train, which was basically just another way of saying we played "doctor", only I was performing an exploratory procedure under the revealing beam of a flashlight.

Ten years later while home on leave from the Navy, I found myself looking into those same trusting, deep blue eyes over the Tasty Pastry counter where she was working. All I had wanted when I walked in was a chocolate-chip cannoli. That is, until I saw a more delectable item on the menu. An hour later I left with a Plum cherry.

Three years later, after I had returned home but before becoming a cop, I was standing on the sidewalk in front of Giovichinni's Meat Market when Stephanie spotted me. I never saw her coming. She mounted the pavement and ran me over with her father's Buick. All I remember is looking up into a blue sky that matched her eyes, then letting my eyes travel up those familiar, shapely legs and up her skirt. She asked if anything was broken. I told her she had broken my leg. "Good," she said, and marched back to the car, revved the V-8 engine, and took off towards the mall. I guessed she might have been mad about some of the things I had written on bathroom walls around town over the years. I'd meant it as a compliment. I swear!

Stephanie had gone one to marry a lawyer named Dickie Orr, who soon after had been caught with his pants down with Stephanie's arch-nemesis, Joyce Barnhardt. She was divorced the next time our paths crossed. She was a a newly hired and as-yet-untrained bounty hunter, working for her cousin Vinnie, proprietor of Vincent Plum Bail Bonds. At the time, I was on the run, wanted for murder. The long and the short of it was this: I was innocent, she helped solve the case, she caught me and turned me in against my will, proved my innocence, and in the process stole my jeep and my heart. The jeep was destroyed, blown into a million fiery pieces. As to my heart, well…the jury is still out on that one.

As luck would have it, I'm not the only man enamored with her, although I would like to think I'm at the top of her list. It seems that Stephanie is also in love with a lunatic bounty hunter, Carlos Manoso, who goes by the street name Ranger. He's former Special Forces and runs a security services company called RangeMan. He employs the best goons the federal penitentiaries can provide, and I really wish Stephanie wouldn't spend so much time in his company. He's been mentoring her for a long time, and she really needs to be doing the job on her own if she's going to be a bounty hunter. I've been trying to get her to give it up for years, but with no success in sight.

Just a week ago, after Stephanie needed help escaping from yet another in a long line of psychos out to kill her, Ranger and I had arrived on the scene to sort things out. Typical of Ranger, he got a call and was needed by his men out in the field. He'd indicated that she was on my watch this week, but she was his next week. This really bothered me because Stephanie was still living with me at the time. I wanted to think he was kidding, but the truth was, I didn't believe it for a second. Stephanie had been bouncing back and forth between the two of us for years now. It seemed it took both of us to keep her even moderately safe.

I loved her. We had even been engaged once. But somehow, we hadn't made it work. Our relationship had been on-again-off-again, and every time we were off, Ranger moved in, and the two of them were growing closer every time. The next day, I found a small black RangeMan logo on a pair of her black panties that were mixed up in my laundry. I did what any self-respecting Italian boyfriend would do. I went berserk. Stephanie did what any self-respecting Hungarian-Italian girlfriend would do. She moved out. Again.

So, now, Stephanie was back to living in her own apartment with her hamster, Rex. Bob, the shaggy orange dog we had adopted, was living with me at my house, as usual.

Bob was waiting at the back door when I pushed it open. I grabbed his leash and led him around the back yard to do his business. The moon was bright and the night air was as clear as it ever gets in the Burg. I looked up at the night sky and wished on every star that I would wake up in the morning knowing what in the world I was supposed to do with a woman like Stephanie Plum.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2 Two Weeks, Three Cops

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at online at **behindthebadge (net, not com).** It's a must read!_

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

The next morning, I woke up to another phone call that I wish I hadn't taken. It was a rainy morning, and I didn't feel any better about the situation I was in with Stephanie. I had been a PC, or plain clothes, for a long time now, but today I pulled my dress uniform from the closet and took a good long look at it before putting it on.

I drank my coffee slowly and stared at the newspaper without seeing it. The front page story was about the recent deaths of the two Trenton cops. I was thinking about tomorrow's paper. It would give the grisly details of a third.

I climbed into my SUV and drove to the address the Chief had given me. I phoned the coroner to verify the details. I then spent the better part of the morning at the home of the wife and children of the slain officer, having been the one chosen to deliver the notification to his immediate family. His parents were out of state and had been notified by a local representative.

Next on my list of things to do was making sure I was present at the autopsy so I could take notes first hand and ask any questions that needed to be asked. I doubted this case was going to be prosecutable either, but just in case things changed, I needed to gather all the evidence I could. And the thing about evidence is that you usually only get one shot at it.

I had changed clothes at home and was on my way to the coroner's office when my cell phone rang.

"Hey, Cupcake," I said, picking up. I really wanted to talk to her. I wished the sound of her voice could just wipe away all of the grim gray noise of the morning.

"I need you to make it to dinner tonight," she said. This was more of a demand than a dinner invitation. I was a regular to dinner with Stephanie's parents, but I wasn't at all in the mood for the carnival-like atmosphere tonight.

"Sorry, Cupcake. I'm working late tonight." And I probably would be.

"You have to come. I can't deal with the questions my mother and Grandma Mazur are going to have about the shootings, and you have all the answers. If you're not there, they'll be pumping _me_ for information."

"I'm the lead detective. I can't discuss the case. You know that."

"Then make something up! Cripes! Just don't leave me hanging out there all by myself tonight."

_Of all the petty nonsense_, I groaned to myself. Stephanie's problems with her family were not even on my radar screen at the moment.

"Where are you?" I asked. There was a din of noise in the background and I thought I was better off knowing than not knowing. Stephanie was still working as a bounty hunter for her cousin, Vinnie. She should be chasing down FTA's. Those are people who "failed to appear" in court after having been bonded out. Stephanie got ten percent of the bond money. If she didn't bring the FTA back in cuffs, she didn't get paid. Most months, Stephanie barely brought home the rent. That's why she ate at her parents' so often.

"I'm at the mall with Lula. We were trying to pick up an FTA, but he was a no-show at work. Now I'm stuck here at Macy's trying on shoes with Lula. If I don't get her moving pretty soon, I'm going to be too late to pick up my car at the shop. My muffler fell off and I had to get a new one, but I was hoping to pick up this FTA so I could pay for it. I guess it'll have to wait till tomorrow. Can you come pick me up?"

"No, Cupcake, I can't. I'm up to my neck in it today."

"You know what? I think you work too much, Joe." She sighed. "Sometimes I just want to come first, you know what I mean? Sometimes I need you to be there for me for something other than sex."

"Are you saying I haven't been there for you?" I growled. "After all we've been through, you're really going to say that?"

"What have you done for me lately, Joe?" I could see her standing hand on hip, tapping her foot, looking down at the floor as she attacked me through the phone.

I was angry, and I was getting angrier the longer this call went on.

"You know what? I wish I had your problems." I told her coldly and clicked my phone shut before my mouth could do any more damage.

A moment later my cell chirped again.

"What?" I growled.

"Does this mean you're not coming to dinner?"

I clicked the phone shut again knowing her next call was going to be to Ranger, and he'd doubtless provide her with a ride. Either he would show up himself, or he'd send one of his employees from Rangeman to chauffeur her around. _Well, fine...that's one less thing for me to worry about_, I thought.

An hour later, I was standing at the foot of a stainless steel gurney watching a fellow officer's insides being weighed and measured by a guy who had missed his calling as a butcher at Giovichinni's.

Thankfully, I hadn't known any of these officer's personally. I had met this one once, though. As I snapped the photographs, I remembered the timbre of his voice, his firm handshake, and thought I would have liked knowing this guy.

He had been killed by a single shot to the center of his forehead by a 9mm round. There were three more bullets lodged in his Kevlar vest. When the vest was pulled away, we saw that all three had penetrated.

We'd all heard the stories and seen movies about "cop killer" rounds. These are bullets with a hard core covered with a pea-green Teflon coating. The steel or brass core doesn't deteriorate after making contact with a solid object like a car door or windshield. The Teflon is added to protect the gun barrel. No cops were ever killed merely because a shooter used these bullets. It was just media hype. Federal law had banned several "cop killer" labeled firearms, but of course that means nothing out on the streets. All it did was add one more series of prosecutable offenses for the ATF and local police to charge someone with. And that was okay in my books.

The vests police wear are "bullet-resistant", not "bullet-proof". The belief is that Kevlar is five times stronger than steel. While this may be true, vests come in various grades and makes. Many opt for less effective but lighter weight vests so that they have some protection in exchange for being more comfortable.

One other thing very few officers think about is that the chemical compounds used in bullet-resistant vests are susceptible to damage if exposed to intense heat over long periods of time. So, it stands to reason that if an officer leaves his vest in his vehicle during the heat of the day, over a number of years its effectiveness may be decreased by up to fifty percent, maybe more. This is why it is recommended that officers should wear the vest and take it inside with him whenever he wasn't wearing it. Unfortunately, I don't think most of us take this matter seriously enough.

Kevlar doesn't stop a bullet. It acts like a net, catching it and spreading the force over a larger area. The hope is that the force is diminished enough at the point of impact that the bullet doesn't have enough speed left to penetrate, although the officer may suffer a blunt force trauma, usually resulting in a large, painful bruise or a broken rib. That didn't appear to be the case with this vest. The holes went right through with little apparent resistance.

I waited another hour as the autopsy procedure continued. Finally, the first bullet was extracted and dropped into the collection pan with a metallic ting. A normal 9mm round is made of lead and becomes deformed upon impact. This round had a brass core and was Teflon coated.

I had inspected the vest as it was removed. It appeared to be several years old, and it wasn't made of Kevlar. It was made of Zylon, which was lighter weight and more comfortable, but which didn't last five years in testing. It was known to degrade. I didn't know when or where he had gotten the vest, and it didn't really matter now other than getting the information to our fellow officers so that they would get their vests replaced if they were still wearing these.

I didn't usually wear a vest unless I thought there was a better than average chance I was going to be shot at. Today, I was wearing it, and was glad for the first time that the morgue was so cold.

I left the coroner's office and went back to the station to start on my reports. But, for a long time I just sat there looking at the faces around me. We had three cops killed by juveniles in two weeks. That just didn't happen.

I filled out reports, downloaded the digital pictures and made copies, prepared a presentation for the other officers, met with the Chief, and was worn out from thinking about the whole thing by 9:00 p.m. That was the first time I realized that I hadn't eaten anything all day. I'd had plenty of coffee, but no food.

I tried not to think about Stephanie having dinner alone at her parents' house. I didn't dare consider what Grandma Mazur would have asked me about the bullet wounds and corpses I had inspected that week. Most of all, I tried not to think about Stephanie's mother worrying that maybe I wasn't the man for her daughter to marry after all.

I called ahead to Pino's Pizza and ordered two meatball subs to go. I rolled into the parking lot and cut the engine, and as I did I caught Ranger's black Porsche rolling in beside me. Ordinarily we would have got out and stood behind our cars in the parking lot to talk, but today, Ranger slipped into the passenger seat of my SUV.

"Sounds like you've got problems," he said. I assumed he was talking about the shootings, but I wondered if he was also talking about Stephanie.

"Guess so," I said, waiting to see where he was going with this.

"Three cops down. All kids. Something's off." Ranger always got right to the point.

"I know, but I can't see any link. You got anything?"

"Nada. But I'm asking around. I'll let you know if I hear anything," Ranger said in his Cuban-American accent, his ever vigilant dark eyes flashing as he checked the side mirror before getting out. "Watch your back," he advised. I nodded, and he was gone.

I grabbed my subs and headed home. Bob and I sat side by side on the couch, making a mess of the marinara. It was good to have Bob's company. He didn't ask questions. He didn't need much really. He was a real guy's dog. When we were both fed and watered, mine being a cold Bud, we went up to bed. I hung my vest on the doorknob to the bathroom, then thought better of it and laid it on the chair by my bed along with my gun, having checked that it was fully loaded and ready to go.

I lay awake for another two hours, listening to Bob snore, wondering where Stephanie was, and still having no idea what I was doing with my life.

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3 Stephanie's Dreams

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found online at **behindthebadge (net, not com).** It's a must read!_

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

I had walked Bob and was finishing my morning coffee when I heard a car door close in front of my house. I looked out the front curtain and saw Stephanie walking up the drive. Ranger saw me at the window and pulled away.

I opened the door and let my eyes drink her in. Her blue eyes and curly dark hair would have been even more beautiful with a smile, but I didn't get one.

"Where have you been?" I asked, jerking my thumb towards Ranger's route of departure.

"Helping Ranger locate a skip," she said.

"You were helping Ranger?" I asked, raising one eyebrow. "Kind of early for you, isn't it?" Stephanie never liked to get up before ten.

"He took me with him to talk to the lady living next door to his FTA. She and Ranger are both early risers. He thought I could get more info from her than he would have," she explained defensively.

"I can see that," I growled in agreement. Ranger looked like a Hispanic Rambo, always dressed in SWAT black and packing plenty of heat. She knew I didn't entirely trust her answer, so she decided to change the subject.

"So, how's it going with you?" She looked concerned.

"It's been rough," I admitted. "And I'm sorry I snapped at you about dinner."

"You could have told me," she said, rocking on her heels and burying her hands into her jeans pockets.

"No, I couldn't," I said, leading the way to the kitchen. I grabbed her mug from the cabinet and poured her a cup of coffee, adding plenty of cream and sugar, just the way she liked it. "News of the third shooting hadn't been made public yet." I stirred her coffee and handed it to her.

"I'm not the public," she argued.

"Yes, you are," I said slowly and clearly. She never could get it through her thick head that I had to keep a lot of what I did confidential from anyone who wasn't authorized police personnel. "Damn it, I swore to uphold the law and when I do what I promised, you give me crap for it. How about a little support here?"

"You know you can trust me, Joe. You bend the rules all the time. You talk to Ranger…"

"I don't share confidential information with Ranger unless I have clearance, and you know it," I said, raising my voice another notch. "Most of the time, he already knows, but he didn't find out from me."

"Why didn't you ask for clearance to tell me and Ranger about the Dickey thing?" She was referring to the time I let her think she was still a murder suspect after I had located her ex-husband alive and kicking and kept him under protective custody at my house. She had walked in and found him there, knowing I had been sitting on a witness for days. To say she was furious would be a huge understatement.

"Just let it go, okay? I'm not going to apologize for hiding Dickey from you."

"I don't want to fight with you," she said, backing off, which was totally uncharacteristic of her.

"I don't want to fight with you, either," I told her.

"I came over because I'm worried about you." Her eyes were serious and searching.

"Me too, Cupcake," I said, opening my arms wide. She closed the distance and let me hold her tight.

"Joe, what's going on?" She squeezed my ribs tighter. "Please tell me."

"I don't know, Steph. Honestly. I don't know."

"I could help, Joe. Please." She thought I was holding out on her. She tried to pull back.

"If you want to help, just hold me," I told her, pulling her back to my chest. She was quiet for a long time, and we just stood there, breathing together. These moments were few, and I treasured every second of it. I felt like I had been holding my breath without realizing it, like I hadn't been breathing for days. She was oxygen to me.

"Did I ever tell you that I used to dream about you?" She wrapped her fingers into my shirt back and rested her head on my shoulder so that her lips were closer to my ear.

"No. I think I would have remembered that," I whispered. "In these dreams, were you running me over with Big Blue?" I asked, referring to her Uncle Sandor's '53 Buick.

"No." She laughed weakly. She was serious, trying to tell me something in her own way. "You were always ahead of me in school. You were so cool, and I just wasn't. I was warned to stay away from you. You seemed dangerous, like an exotic animal, untamed and wild." Now I was laughing silently. "I dreamed about approaching you at school or down the block by your house or at the park. Then you'd turn and chase me all over the landscape of my dreams."

"Sounds like fun," I said, trying to make light of it.

"Even after the bakery, when I was angry that you never called and I had to face the fact that I had meant nothing to you, I still dreamed about you chasing me, with that big eagle tattooed across your chest."

"Did I ever catch you in these dreams?" I wondered.

"No," she admitted, sadly. "I just kept running, scared to death of you. The thought of you made my heart pound in my chest. But I was still disappointed whenever you stopped chasing me."

"Do you still have that dream?" I asked.

"Sometimes, mostly when we fight," she said softly. "Joe, when we fight and I leave, you always let me go. You never chase me." It almost sounded like she was complaining.

"Would it do any good?" I asked.

"Yes, I think it would," she said.

"This is real life, Cupcake," I told her, pulling her back and looking into those deep blue eyes brimming with tears. "I think things may be a little more complicated than that."

"I can't imagine my life without you, Joe." She blinked back a tear. "I love you." I had waited a long time to hear those words. Even after all these years, I'd only heard them from her a few times and only recently.

"I love you too," I assured her, kissing her gently on the forehead.

"Everything in my heart says you and I should fit. Why don't we? Why can't we make this work?"

"I've been wondering about that too." I wrapped one of her curls around my finger and gave it a playful tug. "I wish I had the answer."

"Joe, I can never be a housewife like your mom."

"No one can be a housewife like my mom," I teased.

"Okay, not even like my mom," she said, as if lowering the standard.

"I know," I said in a whisper.

"And I don't mind that you're a cop. You're a good cop, Joe. I just don't see why you refuse to let me in. Don't you need me?"

"I need you, Cupcake. But if I need to talk shop, I can talk to the guys. I don't want to bring that crap home with me…to you."

"I need you to talk to me. I can't know you, or understand you, if I don't know what's going on."

"I don't want you to be involved with the things I have to deal with, Stephanie."

"I'm already involved."

"I know, and I hate it," I sighed.

"I _want_ to be involved. I don't want to be on the outside. You can't protect me. You can only exclude me. Please, please don't keep doing this to me."

I pulled away and tried to breathe deeply, keeping my frustration at bay.

"Do you really want a wife who is oblivious to the things you see everyday?" She came around in front of me. "Joe, look at me." I met her gaze and suddenly felt as cold and distant from her as ever. "I've seen you out on the streets working a crime scene. I've discovered dead bodies. I know what it's like. I've always been able to rely on you. You let me talk to you and I have been comforted by you. Why can't I be that for you?"

"I don't want you to know about the things I've seen," I growled.

"I want to be part of your world."

She just didn't understand. How could I make her understand?

"You don't have to climb over dead bodies to be part of my world," I yelled, losing my patience.

"That _is_ your world, Morelli," she shouted back. "You're a homicide detective."

"I want you to give me another world, one that I share with you apart from all of this. When I come home to you, I want to see you look at me like you did when you were sixteen," I said, the words tumbling out before I could calculate the cost.

"What?" She looked stunned.

"This is _my_ world," I said, pointing to the headline splashed across the front page of the newspaper. "And I need you to trust me and I need you to stay out of it."

"You can't corner the market on excitement and adventure, Morelli."

"Is that what this is to you?" I asked, fuming. "You think this is fun?"

"Why do you do it then? Don't you get a thrill from it?"

That stopped me cold. There was a time in the beginning that I did get a thrill from being a cop. I had loved the hunt, joining the chase. But that was a long time ago. As a detective I had seen too many guilty parties go free because a jury chose to ignore the evidence and refused to uphold the law. I couldn't believe how many people were eager to believe the worst about Trenton's finest. I was becoming more jaded and bitter as each year rolled by. I didn't know anymore why I was doing this job day after day, except that I didn't feel I had a choice. People needed me. It was expected of me now. People depended on me.

I hadn't joined the force for the thrill. I had joined because I wanted to be a hero and not a drunken, worthless shell of a man. But lately I had begun to wonder if the only difference between the two was that one man had a shiny badge and one didn't.

"You're not passionate about your job anymore," she said, simply stating the obvious.

I decided to turn the tables on her before she got any closer to the root of my problem. "Why are you working for Vinnie? Is it to be close to me? Or is it because you like it?"

"Both, I think." She looked carefully at me. "I'm with you because you were always exciting to me, Joe." She paused, assessing my mood. "When you pursued me when we were kids, I anticipated the things to come, but you stopped the pursuit once you'd had me. It was damn disappointing. Then you pursued me again as an adult, and you were as exciting as ever, but then, that excitement stopped when I realized you intended to lock me up in this house, away from the danger and excitement. Joe, I want what your bad boy image always promised. Why is that so much to ask?"

"You're the one who generates all the excitement around here these days, Cupcake. I don't go around blowing up cars and burning down buildings. Being a cop isn't half as exciting as the life you've been leading." I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. "Sometimes I think you're putting your life in danger just so you can compete with me," I told her.

"Maybe you shouldn't have challenged me," she said. She was as stubborn as they come, that was for sure.

"Maybe I should have challenged you to a bake-off. Then I'd be eating lasagna right now instead of fighting with you," I said.

"Smartass," she muttered at me under her breath.

"You have breakfast yet?" I asked.

"I was with Ranger, the health nut, this morning. Remember? You think he was going to feed me donuts?"

"Want some? Boston creams? Your favorite," I said tempting her with a gleam in my eye as I grabbed my keys off the hook.

"You buying?" she asked, arms crossed and looking both teasing and cranky, but still beautiful to me.

I slung my arm around her shoulders. "Didn't catch your FTA yet, huh?"

"Not yet."

"You will," I assured her.

"You think?" She put her arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze.

"You brought me in once, didn't you?"

"You never know, I might bring you in again," she teased, grinning up at me as we walked out the door.

I knew better than to doubt it.

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4 Turning Point

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at online at **behindthebadge (net, not com).** It's a must read!_

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

I felt a lot better after having breakfast with Steph. I spent the morning filing papers down at the courthouse. On my way out, I spotted the rookie who had puked on me the other night. He was headed back out to his patrol car. I watched him drive away, and out of morbid curiosity, decided to follow him. I was inconspicuous in my personal SUV.

The police scanner reported a mugging a few blocks away and gave a description of the suspects as four young gang punks, two black, one Hispanic, one white, all in blue shirts and jeans. They were on foot, and they didn't sound too bright. Sure enough, the rookie spotted them and hit the lights and siren, scattering them down the alley.

I hit the gas and headed them off at the other end of the alley. I jumped out, gun in hand and flashing my badge, ordering them to the ground. They sensed from the authority in my voice that I was not a rookie and that I meant business. The kid came running down the alleyway and saw me, recognition crossing his face, immediately followed by a red flush of embarrassment.

"You looking for these guys?" I asked casually.

"Yeah," he gasped. "Thanks."

I put my gun away and watched him trying to work the scene. He was patting them down, looking for the wallet and jewelry that was reported stolen. They'd pitched the wallet, but he came up with a diamond ring on the finger of one of the punks. Back up had arrived, and assisted with cuffing and stuffing the boys one by one. The rookie was questioning the boy with the ring, but he was arrogant, knowing he was underage and there was little we could do to prove he'd stolen the ring.

I walked up the to rookie. "Mind if I interject?" I asked.

"Sure," the kid said, wondering what I was about to teach him. He was paying close attention. I spoke loudly so that the punk could hear me. "I think you may as well take him in separately. If he's not going to implicate his friends, then we only have one to hold on felony count, and the rest are going to be misdemeanors and will probably be released by tonight."

The boy in blue looked shocked for a second. "Felony? I didn't do no felony."

"That diamond ring on your finger is worth more than a felony conviction, mister," I said casually, indicating to the rookie that he should get out his cuffs to take the boy in. "What do you think the value is on that rock?"

"Diamond my ass," the boy said, holding up the ring on his finger. "This here's a CZ, man. That bitch tell you it was a real diamond? No way, man. This ain't worth three and two zeros at no pawn shop."

"Really?" I said, eyebrows raised. The rookie was trying hard not to smile. "Well, we'll just have to book him on the aggravated theft and assault charges then," I said, pulling the ring off his finger and dropping it into a plastic evidence baggie. I always kept a few in my jacket pockets.

After booking the boys, the rookie and I had a coffee at the station while I gave him a few more pointers, like not hitting the lights and siren when you're trying to get the drop on a group of delinquents.

He was still feeling embarrassed about tossing his cookies the other night. So, I told him about my first fatal accident scene.

A high speed chase had ended badly, and the suspect had hit a large tree at about eighty miles-per-hour. I had been in pursuit, but I wasn't lead. My heart had been pounding and the adrenaline rush was incredible. Then, I was standing by the wreckage, waiting for the coroner. The body was pinned between the seat and the tree, best we could tell. The car was a crumpled shell. When the coroner asked me to help him remove the body, I just looked around like he had to be kidding. I thought that had to be someone else's job. But it turned out it was mine. So, I was trying to pull this dead guy's legs out from under the dash when the coroner unexpectedly got the torso free. I jumped back as the body fell forward onto me. I saw an arm, then a shoulder, and as I reached up instinctively to catch him under the arms, the head rolled out of the area of the roof of the car and rolled down the chest and legs towards the coroner who let out a scream and ran the other way. I was holding a headless corpse under the armpits. I didn't dare look down at the neck. I looked up and pulled until I could lay him down on the ground. Then I walked away and threw up for about ten minutes. Later that night, after getting cleaned up at the station, several of us had stopped for coffee and donuts. I was putting cream in my coffee and when I looked up, for a split second, I thought the guy sitting across from me didn't have a head. It was crazy the things that kind of trauma can do to your thinking. It was days before I even attempted to sleep with the lights off.

The rookie had laughed and seemed to feel better about things. He headed back out to finish his shift, and I answered my pager, which had buzzed me twice. I had a crime scene waiting for me at a residence. Apparent suicide.

The address lead me to an average row house in the Burg. I arrived to find a handsome woman, fully clothed, lying in a cold bathtub covered in blood spatters. There was a pool of blood beneath her. A 9mm Glock, presumably her husband's, was lying in the tub beside her. The shower curtains had been neatly drawn around her to prevent the blood splatter from soiling the rest of the bathroom.

The photographer pointed out the note that had been left sitting neatly on the bathroom counter. It was a letter in a feminine hand that apologized to her family for the mess and assured them she would do her best to keep the affected area as small as possible. She had cleaned the house, told them where items of interest had been placed, and it was without a doubt the most thoughtful suicide I had ever been witness to.

I looked back at the woman lying serenely in the bottom of the tub. She was even wearing nice shoes, her legs crossed demurely. This was a nice lady. She was thoughtful and kind, loving, and so desperate to escape the confines of her life that she had shot herself in the head, seeing no other way out. She would do this rather than live with the disappointment she might see on the faces of her family.

I tried hard to keep things clinical when I was working a scene. I mentally referred to "the body", "the victim", and "the scene". But as I sat there, looking into the unseeing eyes of this middle-aged woman who had so much potential and so much to give to those around her, I suddenly saw past the dark brown eyes of the woman before me, and in their place I saw blue eyes and dark, curly hair. I saw what I would be doing to Stephanie if I asked her to stay home and cook and clean for me when all she wanted was to be caught up in the action. She just wanted to live, the way she was meant to. She had to be free to be herself, disastrous as that may be.

I tried to focus, to work the scene, but it was no use. I walked outside for some air, and called for the captain to send another detective to take this one. I met him at his office and we talked a long time. Calls were made, papers were signed, and within a few hours I was on my way home, stopping at Pino's for two subs and a case of beer.

Bob and I sat watching basketball until half of the beer was gone and I feel asleep in my recliner. I wanted to dream about chasing Stephanie around the park, but all I dreamed about was a funeral where my father was standing beside an empty casket, looking confused, and the mourners were asking Mrs. Plum questions she didn't have the answers to.

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5 The Posse

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found online at **behindthebadge (net, not com).** It's a must read! _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

I woke with a start to find a cold Bob nose pressed against my neck. He wanted out. I sat up slowly in the recliner and got to my feet. I shuffled after Bob and squinted into the sunlight as I opened the back door, leash in hand.

After coffee and a shower, I sat down at the kitchen table with my cell phone in my hand. I cleared my throat and called Stephanie.

There was no answer at her apartment. I tried her cell, or at least the last cell number I had for her. She went through cell phones like other women changed hairstyles. They were always getting destroyed. I tried again, but there wasn't even a ringing on the other end.

I really wanted to get this over with, so I grit my teeth and called Ranger.

"Yo," he answered. This was his customary greeting.

"It's Morelli. Is Steph with you?"

"Haven't seen her."

"Do you know if she has a new cell number?" I asked.

"What number do you have?" I told him. "That's what I have. It's offline?"

"Yeah."

"There's a surprise," he said sarcastically.

"You know where she is? I need to talk to her."

"I'll call you back," he said. Ranger had her on GPS. I hated that except when it served _my_ purposes. I have to admit, I got some satisfaction knowing that it also reported to him how many hours she logged at my house, which was usually quite a lot.

Three minutes later my phone buzzed with a text message. "Vehicle in shop, bag at bakery 1 blk from apt." Of course.

I drove to the bakery, but she wasn't there, so I headed to her apartment. I didn't see her walking on the sidewalks along the way, so I assumed she would be at her apartment when I got there.

Old Mrs. Bessler was playing elevator operator again. I smiled at her, and she greeted me as if she was working for a large department store of days gone by. I asked for the third floor, and she hit the button.

"Third floor, men's wear, sporting goods, and travel accessories," she announced with glee. The door slid open with a ding of the bell.

"Thanks," I said, giving her a wink as I stepped out of the elevator and onto Steph's floor. It had always seemed perfect to me that someone like Mrs. Bessler would be acting as the gate keeper for the crazy world of Stephanie Plum.

I rang the doorbell and waited while she checked the peep hole and unbolted the door.

"Hey, Cupcake."

"Joe? What's going on?" she asked, opening the door for me.

"Your cell phone doesn't work." I said.

"Had a little problem with the bill," she admitted with a grimace.

"We need to talk," I said.

She let out a little groan. "What kind of talk?"

"A very serious talk," I said, following her into the kitchen.

She poured me some coffee and handed me a donut, then sat down opposite me at the table.

"Something happened to me yesterday," I began. "Normally, I would keep it all to myself." I ran my hand through my hair and rubbed my stubbly chin. "Steph, I don't know how to explain to you what has changed or why, and I know this is 180 degrees from where I was yesterday morning, but I don't want you to quit working for Vinnie, if that's what you enjoy doing."

She sat, looking at me, probably contemplating taking my temperature to see if I was running a fever.

"I've thought about it long and hard, and here's the thing. I want you to be happy, to have all the danger and excitement you want, just as long as you're living – and I mean really living. But, I love you, and I want you to work safer than you have been. So, I propose that you form your own team. Ranger has a team. I have a team. You need to build a team, Cupcake. You can't take down serious skips on your own. None of us can, at least, none of us should have to."

She sat in stunned silence, looking at me for a full minute. Then she stirred her coffee and watched the swirls in the light brown liquid.

"What happened, Joe?" She was worried, and not sure if my change of heart was momentary or permanent.

I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath. "I'm trusting you not to tell anyone what I'm about to tell you," I said. She nodded. "I got called to a suicide yesterday. And when I looked into the face of this sweet lady who took her own life because she was not cut out to be a housewife, all I saw was you." My voice broke, surprising even me.

"Joe," she gasped.

"I have been moving up in the department in part because I wanted to be a good provider, but you were right. I've lost my passion for the job." I reached out and took her hand. "I had a long talk with the Captain yesterday, and I stepped down as a homicide detective, although I have been asked to continue working on the three cases involving our guys until they reach conclusion."

She was stunned. "What are you going to do, then?"

"I accepted a position as FTO," I told her. That's a Field Training Officer. "We have some rookies that need a babysitter, and this way I could be back in the field, but without taking the pay cut back all the way back to patrolman. I may still do consulting on homicide cases or I may go back to Vice. I haven't decided yet. I just need a break right now."

"You're not in uniform," she said, looking at my sweatshirt.

"The Captain gave me one day off to get my head on straight," I explained.

"One day. How generous," she said, rolling her eyes.

"It is, actually, considering our workload."

"I suppose," she groaned. "So, what are your plans for today?"

"I planned to help you start rounding up a posse."

"Really," she grinned, rolling her eyes again at my use of the word "posse".

"Really," I said, pressing her a little. "Who would be first on your list?"

She took a bite of donut and chewed thoughtfully. "Lula, or course." Lula was a former prostitue who worked as a filing clerk for Vinnie, and sometimes acted as Stephanie's sidekick. They were disaster in motion, but I knew Lula would always have Steph's back in a pinch.

"Who else?"

"I don't know. I guess I can't use any of Ranger's guys, right?"

"No. This is your own team." I took a sip of coffee. "Let's just brainstorm and think outside the box, okay? Who would be on your dream team? Anyone you know."

"Well, let's see. I'd need someone to help us get in and out of buildings. Ranger usually picks all my locks for me," she said, thinking out loud.

"I'm not hearing this," I groaned.

"Someone handy," she mused. "Hey, maybe Dillon Ruddick, the building super. He's great with tools and he's almost always home. I could call him anytime."

"Okay, that's two."

"Transportation could be provided by Sally Sweet." Salvatore Sweet was a tall, hairy cross-dresser who was a rock musician by night and a school bus driver by day. He carried an AK-47 or some such thing under the driver's seat and had run over a pack of Slayers gang members who were after Stephanie once. For that, he was okay in my books, but he was definitely out of his mind.

"Hmmm," she mused. "I need someone sneaky, underhanded, and sort of knowledgeable about the law."

"Why?" I asked, starting to worry that maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

"Because, you have to think like a bad guy to catch a bad guy, and you have to know which rules to bend to get your man. You know that," she said, as if I operated that way.

"Cupcake, I'm a cop. I uphold the law. I don't break it."

"Give me a break. I was on a B&E with you my very first time out."

"Those were very extenuating circumstances," I said.

"Oh, so you only bend the rules when you're on the run for murder. Got it," she said, flipping her hair back and giving me a warning look.

"You've been working with Ranger way too long," I growled.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because, you are starting to pick up his bizarre moral code. Steph, I expect you to do your job to the best of your ability, but you are smart enough to do it within the confines of the law. And this team is meant to allow you to do that. The FTA's you are chasing have not been proven guilty, and they still have rights. They haven't had their day in court yet."

"According to Ranger, they are guilty the minute they run," she countered, tapping her spoon on the table for emphasis.

"I ran, and I was innocent. You helped me prove that, remember?"

Her brow furrowed, and she thought for a minute. "Okay, okay. I take it back." Then her brows shot straight up and I swear I saw a light bulb go on inside her head. "Take it back! Repo! I know just the scum bag that could help me. Lenny Gruber."

"Lenny Gruber?" I had heard his name, but I didn't know him.

"Lenny and I went to school together, and he was the one who repossessed my Mazda Miata. That was why I ended up stealing your Jeep when you were on the run. Remember?"

"No, I don't remember. I guess I had my mind on other things at the time," I said, wondering what would be next on her list. Maybe we could give Manson a call in prison and see if he would have any advice for her on the criminal mind. "Let me get this straight. You would feel better running around with Lula, a building super, and a repo-man?"

"Hey, this was your idea. Who did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. I guess I didn't think this through very well." She looked insistent. "What?" I could hear the foot tapping under the table. "Maybe you and Lula and old Mr. Kleinschmidt with his M16. I don't know." Her neighbor, Mr. Kleinschmidt, was a rumored to be armed and dangerous as well as a master of crossword puzzles.

"Sure," she said, standing. "I'll go ask him," she said in a voice filled with false excitement, heading for the door. I thought she was bluffing, but she opened the door and was down the hall before I could stop her. She had already knocked before I caught up with her in front of Mr. Kleinschmidt's door.

"Yes?" Mr. Kleinschmidt said, answering his door.

"Hi!" Steph said, giving him a little finger wave. "I had a quick question for you. You know how I'm still working as a bounty hunter?" He gave a nod. "Well, Joe thought I should put together a 'posse' to help me with my takedowns, and I wondered if you and your M16 would be willing to back me up if I called."

Mr. Kleinschmidt looked positively honored at the prospect. "You came to the right place, Missy! I got the goods," he said, indicating that he did indeed have an M16 inside. "Mrs. Zuppa only packs a 9mm and Mrs. Keene couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with those cataracts of hers."

"You're on the team, then," Stephanie declared, thanking Mr. Kleinschmidt and returning to her apartment.

"Well, that wasn't so hard, was it?" she asked, sarcastically. "Next time I have a guy cornered, I'll just call Mr. Kleinschmidt. I mean, even if I'm mistaken or he kills ten other people by mistake, he's so old they could give him life and he would only get about three years tops."

"Not funny," I said, slouching in my chair in the kitchen.

"No, it's not funny," she said. "I need serious backup out there, Joe." At least the idea seemed to appeal to her. "But if I do this, it's my team, not yours. I choose who's on it, and I don't intend to run my choices by you."

"Okay, I'm not involved." I sipped my coffee, which was cold now. "I suppose it's better that way. I have deniability."

"Funny," she said, but she was smiling. God knows, I was probably going to need deniability at some point.

"I don't know who else. I'll think about it and let you know as I bring them on, okay?"

"Okay," I agreed. "What are you doing today? Need a ride?"

"Yeah, just to the bonds office. I can ride with Lula today."

"Do you need me to spring your car from the shop?" I offered.

"No. I'll get it out myself." She was determined to be self sufficient. Sometimes it was endearing. "But, thanks."

"Let me know if you need help, before you ask Ranger, okay?"

She nodded.

"Maybe you don't need me, but I'd like to be there for you," I told her.

"Okay," she said, giving me a little smile.

I stood to go and she followed.

"What about you? Are you really okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. I'm going to relax a little today, and I'll be in uniform again tomorrow, out on the streets, living the life," I grinned mischievously at her.

She reached out to pop me in the chest, but when her hand came in contact with my vest, she froze.

"Joe? You're wearing a vest?"

"Thought I'd better," I told her.

"I thought the shootings were all accidents," she said. "What are you not telling me?"

"I wouldn't say they were accidents," I told her. "They were intentional shootings by juveniles. But I don't see a connection."

"Then why the vest?" She was worried, and it showed in her eyes.

"Because I want to grow old with you," I said, pulling her to me. She wrapped her arms around me, squeezing me tight in a way that made me feel more secure than any vest. "I love you, Cupcake."

_To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6 Ranger Danger

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

I drove Steph to the bonds office. I was planning to drop her off at the door, but as I rounded the corner, I saw a big black truck with serious antennae that could only belong to Ranger. I pulled up to the curb and cut the engine.

"You coming in?" she asked, surprised.

"Why not? I've got all day."

We were greeted by the sounds of Connie and Lula bickering about a file that Vinnie had asked for that had apparently been misfiled. Connie was the office manager. She was a top-heavy Italian with blood red lips that attracted a man's attention and a shadow of mustache that rather chased a man's attention away again. Lula was bending over a filing cabinet in a yellow and orange neon outfit that clearly wasn't designed for that purpose. Actually, it made her look like a lumpy, oversized road cone.

Ranger was sitting in Vinnie's office looking like he needed an aspirin. Vinnie was yelling at Lula, Connie was yelling at Vinnie, and Lula was muttering under her breath to herself things even I wouldn't repeat, and I really was a sailor.

Steph wasn't even fazed by the chaos. She waltzed over to Connie's desk and held out her hand for the latest skip files that had been assigned to her. Connie handed them over without missing a beat. I stood behind Steph and started reading over her shoulder.

"Lonnie Dodd?" she gasped out loud.

At that, Ranger came out of his seat and began striding towards us. "I don't think so, Babe. Dodd is mine," he said, pulling the file deftly out of her hand.

"Says who?" she said, yanking the file back and opening it.

"Says me," Ranger growled.

"He was mine last time and he's still mine," she told him.

"You didn't get him last time," he corrected her. "Last time, he took your bag and your gun and you had to call me for backup. Then that SOB shot me in the leg. I owe him."

"Well, it was convenient of you to forget that it was my tackle that brought him down when he was getting away from you," she said defiantly.

"He's still mine," Ranger said, holding his hand out expectantly for the file.

The fighting in the room had stopped and all eyes were on Steph and Ranger. Everyone was waiting to see who would win this little exchange.

"I'm a much better bounty hunter now, thank you, Henry Higgins," she spat, snapping the file shut and stuffing it into her bag. "I can handle Lonnie Dodd."

Ranger crossed his arms and glared at her. "You _will_ call me if you need help, right? You're not going to go getting stubborn on me and get yourself killed are you?"

"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself," she said.

"You do realize that Dodd is looking at hard time on this one. This will be his third auto theft conviction. He's not going to go as easily as last time."

Steph swallowed hard. "Sure. I know." She hadn't even considered that.

Ranger was inwardly groaning but outwardly he appeared to be unconcerned. "Okay, he's yours. But you'd better have backup, Babe."

"I have backup," she said. She turned to look at Lula who was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide behind two open drawers of one of the filing cabinets.

"Uh, I have things to do today," Lula stammered. "I might not be able to go. Not that I'm afraid to go after a little runt like Lonnie Dodd. But, I have to find this file for Vinnie. That's priority one for me today."

"You have other backup?" Ranger asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do," she smiled. "I'll just call Sally." She started digging around in her big black bag for her cell phone. She'd forgotten that it had been shut off. Ranger and I exchanged amused glances.

Ranger reached into a side pocket on his black cargo pants and produced a cell phone and handed it to her. "Babe."

"Did you forget that I'm still here? Hello?" I waved a hand in front of her face, trying to break the visual contact that was going on between Stephanie and Ranger. "I can give you a ride anywhere you want to go, Cupcake."

"You wanted to relax today," she reminded me.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" I asked. She just smiled and gave a little shrug as she dialed Sally and put the phone to her ear.

"Got a minute?" Ranger asked.

"I guess I've got all day," I groused. "Walk me out," I said, leading the way.

"Hey!" Vinnie called after Ranger, indicating that they had unfinished business.

"Later," Ranger called out without turning back.

We stood on the sidewalk under the awning outside the bonds office. There was little traffic, and the breeze was cool.

"I heard there's a new babysitter in town," he said with a humorless narrowing of his eyes.

"Don't give me any shit, Manoso," I warned him.

"Hey, I was just going to remind you to train those rookies better than your predecessors."

Ranger and his men always carried concealed. We all knew it, but once in a while, a Rookie would bust him for it. He would just get a slap on the wrist and a warning from the magistrate or judge, but it was a pain in the ass, and he didn't need it. Even though I thought he was basically a nut, and a dangerous nut at that, he was outstanding at bringing down our FTA's, so we tended to look the other way. I guess you could say we had a don't-ask-don't-tell policy. As long as I didn't know for sure he was carrying, I didn't have to bring him in. And I never asked. I know, it was just a BS way of justifying my actions, but it worked for me. I guess Steph's strong sense of denial was rubbing off on me.

I was also in denial about the relationship that had been developing between Stephanie and Ranger. That was definitely a don't-ask-don't-tell subject. If I were to ask her if she had ever been with Ranger while we were apart, she would ask me about Terry Gilman, my former high school sweetheart who was still known to cross my path from time to time. Nothing was going to come of it. Gilman was a mob informant and I was a Trenton cop. Still, mentioning it wouldn't lead to a productive conversation. Actually, as long as Steph had access to Big Blue, I wasn't about to broach the subject.

"Something else you wanted to talk about?" Ranger asked, sensing my hesitation.

"I need a favor," I told him. I explained about the team building project I had sold Steph on and the unexpectedly dangerous turn it seemed to be taking.

Ranger brought in skips for reasons Stephanie could never duplicate. Most FTA's went quietly the moment Ranger walked up to them and identified himself. They knew who Ranger was, and if he wasn't scary enough, they had seen Tank and Hal, the formidable goons who normally backed him up, not to mention that he had a veritable army at his disposal and could hunt any felon down like a dog. There was no shame to being brought in by a former Special Forces man like Ranger.

But most bad-ass felons didn't want to be brought in by a seemingly naieve young woman and her neon-clad, former-ho sidekick. It made them look like a joke. The Slayers gang actually tried to take her out once and for all just for making them look bad.

"Lula doesn't help her image," I told Ranger. "Add Sally the transvestite and a repo man, not to mention the possibility of an octogenarian with an M-16 showing up to the scene and you've got a recipe for disaster," I said.

"And that would differ from every other day how?" Ranger asked sarcastically. At least, I assumed he was being sarcastic. It was hard to tell.

"I need your help. She needs a real team. You're her 'mentor'. She'll listen to you. Help her get it together, okay?"

"So, she's on my watch?" he asked. I swallowed hard. He hadn't been kidding.

"Not exactly," I hedged. Ranger had a mercenary mentality. He felt his time was worth something, and there was probably nothing he valued as highly as time alone with Steph. I needed his cooperation, but I didn't intend to pay for it like that.

"Well," Ranger mused, obviously strategizing. "If Steph gets a crack team - no pun intended - then I expect Vinnie will start kicking her some of my skips. That's going to change the dynamics of my financial portfolio."

"What do you want, Ranger?" I asked, not willing to beat around the bush with him.

"I want her on my team, working for me, but I suppose that's not going to work if you're still a couple."

"Working for RangeMan is definitely out," I assured him. "Try again."

"I want her safe as much as you do," he said. "But you don't even want her out here. So, what gives, Morelli?"

"I had a change of heart," I said, not willing to share more.

"Change of job, change of heart…change of clothes," he said, eyeing the lines of my vest. "That's a lot of changes for you."

"Are you going to help us, or what?"

"'Us?' he laughed mockingly. "No. I want what's best for _her,_" he assured me.

"And that would be?"

He let a wide grin slowly creep across his face.

_Arrogant bastard_, I thought.

"Here's the deal," he said. "I'll help Steph get her team together. She starts making real take-downs and gets her life out of hock, and you get one chance to make things right with her, Morelli. You screw it up, she's mine. You understand?"

"Just who the hell do you think you are?" I hissed under my breath.

"I'm the one who's holding all the cards," he said, eyes flashing. He was enjoying himself, playing the game.

"Really?" I said, reconsidering my request. "I don't think so."

"If you don't like it, maybe you should help her put her team together yourself."

"I will then," I told him, turning to go back into the bonds office. "And you can just stay the hell away from her." I pulled a pair of dark sunglasses out of my jacket pocket and put them on to help hide my animosity.

"You're making a mistake," he said coolly.

"Yeah? What's that?" I spat, glaring at him over the tops of my shades.

"You've got to learn to trust her," he said.

"Trust her?" I repeated. I was thinking back over the long, long…long list of disasters she had been party to since becoming a bounty hunter. "Why wouldn't I trust her? Are you suggesting that I don't trust the woman who is famous because her cars blow up, dead bodies appear out of thin air when she's around, because she's constantly involved in kidnappings and disappearances, fires, and exploding taxidermy? She's the real reason the phone number for every hospital in a 100 miles radius is programmed into my phone. Why wouldn't I trust her?"

"She's tough, and she's smart, and she's getting a lot better at this whole apprehension thing. I think the learning curve is about over. She's going to surprise you one of these days, Morelli."

I was about to give him a smart answer, but I stopped a second to really consider what he was saying. I pushed my sunglasses back up. "I hope you're right," I said, and turned to go back into the bonds office.

I turned to watch Ranger pull away. Steph was off the phone. Vinnie had returned to his inner sanctum. His door was shut. Connie and Lula were digging through the filing cabinets. I walked over to her and put an arm around her.

"Cupcake, you're going to need some muscle to help you with your takedowns. You know, like Tank."

"Well, I can't think of anyone right off, but I'll keep my eyes open. Someone will turn up." She paused, looking over Dodd's file again. "I'll need to split the take with my team, the way Ranger does."

"That seems fair. I can't imagine too many people that will want to run around getting shot at for free."

"That means I'll need to take down more FTA's to make the same amount of money. But, if I have the right back up, I should be able to do exactly that – take down more skips. That also means I'd be working longer hours." She smiled up at me. "I'll be just like Ranger pretty soon," she said. I couldn't miss the admiration in her voice.

"Work smarter, not harder, Cupcake," I advised.

Sally's bus pulled up to the curb. "Gotta go," she said, giving me a kiss goodbye.

"Hey," I said, pulling her back into my arms. "Be careful. I really mean it, Steph."

"I can handle it," she assured me.

"Do you have a gun?" I asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"Who me? Of course I have a gun," she scoffed.

"On you?" I asked pointedly.

She fidgeted, shifting her bag on her shoulder. "Not exactly."

"Steph, you need to carry your gun, and you need to keep it loaded, especially if you're going to be taking on Ranger's skips."

She nodded. "Okay."

"You want mine?" I asked, offering her my .45 revolver.

"No, I'll have Sally swing by my apartment."

"It's in the cookie jar, isn't it?"

"Yep," she grinned. "Just like Rockford."

"You're nothing like Rockford," I told her. She frowned. "You're one of a kind, Cupcake," I told her, "and a hell of a lot cuter than Rockford," I teased, pushing the bill of her ball cap down over her eyes.

I walked her out to Sally's bus and watched her climb aboard. I nodded to Sally, and he saluted. The bus doors closed and Sally pulled away from the curb. I felt my heart banging around inside the confines of my chest, torn between pride, worry, love, and a little lust thrown in for good measure. Did I mention worry? She was the reason I had taken out stock in over-the-counter antacids.

I climbed into my SUV, and my cell phone buzzed.

"Cupcake?"

"I forgot to tell you that I still love you," she said, and she hung up before I could say anything smart.

I guess sometimes it is best not to have the last word.

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7 Pepper Spray and Pearls

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

I was still sitting in front of the bonds office, watching Sally's bus get smaller and smaller. Just as the tail lights signaled that he was turning right, I caught a glimpse of a sleek, black SUV preparing to pull past me. Ranger had a tail on Stephanie, as usual. Well, as long as it wasn't Ranger himself, I felt better about letting her go out on her own today. She had back up, even if she didn't know it. I turned the engine over and drove around for awhile, thinking, plotting, and planning.

I pulled in at Sunny's gun shop. Steph felt comfortable shopping for her bounty hunter gear here, and I figured it would only be a matter of time before she would be back for a refill on her pepper spray or yet another pair of handcuffs. Her FTA's tended to run off with her cuffs, and that cost her $40 a pop. She was one of Sunny's best customers.

Sunny was a very nice lady who didn't know the meaning of the word moderation. She'd had too much sun, too many chemicals on her hair, too many cigarettes, her jeans were way too tight, and her fingernails were ten times too long to do her any good.

"Well, well. Officer Hottie," she said in way of a greeting. "What can I do ya for?"

"Need a favor," I told her, leaning in close over the counter. Hey, if you've got the looks, may as well use them to your full advantage.

"What kind of favor?" she asked, not being fooled by my pseudo come-on.

"Next time you see Stephanie, I need you to suggest to her that she consider some other sources of back up in place of Sally Sweet and Lenny Gruber."

"Lenny Gruber?" She spit on the floor in disgust. "That repo scum? Are you kidding me? She's working with him? What is this world coming to?"

"She's not really working with him yet, but she's trying to put together a team to help her with take downs, like Ranger has, and she's having a little difficulty getting outside her comfort zone, if you know what I mean." I gave her a sly look. "I know you could help me out here. Girls talk, you know? She'll listen to you."

"Well, who did you have in mind as replacements?"

"For one, I was thinking about my cousin, Mooch."

"Mooch Morelli?" she laughed.

"What's wrong with Mooch?" I asked defensively.

"Well, he's a nice enough guy, I guess, but he's hardly bounty hunter material." She slipped a long menthol cigarette into her mouth and pulled a match across the back of a matchbook, lighting up.

"He's not going to be a bounty hunter. He's back up. He has his own business painting houses, which he's not all that good at really. He could be at her beck and call, anytime she needs him. He won't mind dropping everything and taking off to back her up, especially if there's money in it. And he's a big guy, like me. That counts for quite a lot given the line up she's putting together."

"So, he's just a body, basically." She shook out the match and tossed it in a crystal ash tray on the counter.

"Basically. He's benign, and he's loyal to me. I'd trust him with my life, and hers."

"Okay," she sighed, blowing out a long smoky breath. "I'll see if I can steer her in Mooch's direction, but no promises."

"Thanks," I said, pulling back to leave.

"So, what'll it be? Bullets? New high-cap clip? Night sight?" Sunny was a business woman, first and foremost.

I looked around. "You know what I need? A cooler shirt," I said as a trickle of sweat ran down my back under my vest.

"Got just the thing," she said, walking around the counter and leading me to a stack of undercover compression T-shirts. They were designed to be skin tight, with elastic bands made to hold a hand gun and two clips under the arms. "The fabric is amazing, even if you are planning to wear it under a vest," she said, giving my chest a tap. "Just make sure the ends of the shirt can get air, and it'll wick the sweat off you and keep you dry."

"I'll take 'em," I said, grabbing several white, black, and navy shirts.

"I knew I liked you," she said, grinning. "You can slip one on here, if you want," she said suggestively.

"Think I will," smiled, taking a white one and walking back to the changing room.

"Damn," I heard her complain. I grinned. I still had it.

My next stop was Emilio's pawn shop. This was the place Steph pawned most of her appliances, jewelry, and other assorted paraphernalia. I put on my cop face and marched into the shop. Emilio's dark Hispanic face turned white as he watched me looking over his handguns and electronics.

"Can I help you?" he asked timidly.

"Maybe," I said, walking over to the counter. "Does Stephanie Plum have any items in hock right now?"

"He paused. That's confidential information, sir. I'm sorry," he began, but I flashed my badge at him. He swallowed hard.

"You'd better tell me," I said, trying to sound just a little threatening. Emilio and I weren't well acquainted, so he wasn't sure what I would really do if he didn't cooperate. I didn't know if he knew anything about my relationship with Steph.

"She had some things in hock, but the date to retrieve them has come and gone, so the items have either been sold or are for sale now."

"What things?" I asked, pressing him back behind the counter. He pulled up his laptop computer and punched in some numbers.

"Many things," he said, looking down a long list. "Many have been retrieved. But I sold a walkman, an Ansel Adams poster, a microwave oven, a waffle iron, a chicken clock…"

"What the hell is a chicken clock?" I asked, shaking my head in disbelief.

"She had an ugly old clock that looked like a chicken. I felt sorry for her, so I took it. You know, I actually made a profit on that one. Who knew?"

"Keep going," I said, pointing back to the computer screen.

"All I have left is a pair of pearl earrings. They're very nice, and I'm not coming down on the price," he said, walking down the display case to the jewelry and pointing down at a beautiful pair of golden pearl earrings that were hanging from little golden and crystal studded seashells. They would look stunning on her. I couldn't believe she hadn't bought them back. Then I looked at the price. The tag said $700.

"Are you kidding?" I stared him down. "What did you pay her for those earrings?"

He looked like he'd rather eat the earrings than tell me. I raised my eyebrows to indicate that I was expecting an answer.

"Ah, well, she settled for $150."

"You marked these up over four and half times what you paid her?" I felt like taking it out of his weasely little hide.

"It's just business. You buy low, and you sell high," he said in way of explanation, shrugging his shoulders innocently.

"How long have you had these?" I pressed.

"Well over a year," he said. "She's not coming back for them. I haven't seen her lately."

"Well, I am going to need these as evidence," I told him.

"Those are legally mine. You can't just take them without a warrant."

"I will pay you exactly what you paid her," I told him, pulling out my wallet and shelling out $150 in cash. "And not a penny more," I told him flatly.

"That's fair," he stammered, taking the money and pulling the earrings out of the glass case. I snapped the lid down on the jewelry case and left, allowing the door to swing shut heavily behind me.

I went home and sat in my recliner, watching a game, eating chips and drinking the rest of my beer. The police scanner was squawking next to me, but I didn't hear anything about a vehicle explosion, a suspicious fire, a female involved in a shooting, a school bus accidentally running over a pack of nuns, or anything that might indicate Steph was having a bad day.

About 10:30 p.m. my phone rang.

Hey, Cupcake," I answered.

"Hey. Just wanted to wish you luck on your new assignment tomorrow."

"You want to have breakfast with me and Gazarra tomorrow?" I asked.

"What time?" Always an issue.

"About seven. We could bring it by, or I could pick you up. You going to need a ride to the office?"

"No. Sally's picking me up after his route. He's got some clothes to bring over for me to try on, anyway."

I grimaced. I didn't want to know where he might have gotten them. It might distract me from a romantic moment later if I knew the dubious origin of the outfit.

"Tell you what," she said. "How about I wish you luck now, and I sleep in tomorrow?"

"Okay, Cupcake."

"Give Bob a hug for me," she said, yawning. I could hear her bathroom door squeaking. She was home for the night.

"Sweet dreams," I whispered.

"'Night," she whispered back.

We both waited for the click that didn't come.

"I miss you," I said.

I knew she was smiling from the pause. "I'm not coming over," she said.

"Who asked you?"

"'Night," she said again, and this time, I heard the click.

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8 The Worst Day

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the teen gang members, created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

I thought I would be working with a fresh rookie, but my first day I spent chasing around Trenton with Benny Gaspick. He'd been on everyone shit list since the day he'd busted Uncle Mo for carrying concealed and opening a can of worms that the Burg would never forget. As such, he'd remained wet behind the ears, never getting the proper training he needed. I tried to feel sorry for the guy, but he was truly pathetic. He needed to learn to stand up for himself or he wasn't going to make it in this department.

The morning was uneventful. I rode shotgun and basically audited his actions as he made routine traffic stops and wrote out parking citations – all the things that made peaceful, law abiding citizens hate the police.

We stopped for lunch at a sub shop and ate in the car, listening to the scanner. We didn't talk much. I was making sure I maintained my authority and didn't become his buddy. We weren't partners. He was still a little nervous, but he was calming down and getting used to having me watching his back.

We tossed the trash from our lunch and I had him swing by the car dealership where Lenny Gruber worked. I told him to wait in the car while I checked something out. He didn't even think to ask what the something was. Not a good thing for a cop.

I pushed past the glass door to the dealership and asked the bleached blonde behind the reception desk if she could page Gruber for me. She said he was out, but she could call him if I wanted to speak to him. I nodded. She hit a speed dial on her cell phone and informed Gruber that a cop was in the office to see him. She looked at my badge, reading my name. "Morelli," she told him.

Ten minutes later, Gruber pulled into the lot driving a piece of crap tan Corsica that he'd probably just picked up from the delinquent owner. He walked in and tossed the keys to the girl, looking proud of himself.

"Told you that one would be no trouble," he told her.

"Yeah?" she said, getting lippy with him. "It'll be trouble for you if you don't learn to check the back seat a little better." She was looking intently out the plate glass window at a little hand pressed to the back seat window.

"How's that?" He turned to look.

Another black and white pulled up just then, screeching to a halt. A woman jumped out and ran to the Corsica. She wrenched the back door open and ripped a toddler out of the car seat, rocking him and kissing him. The baby started crying, obviously scared that his mother was scared.

"Shit," Gruber said, turning in a small circle, looking at me, and back to the approaching cop.

The door opened, and Big Dog walked in. "Hey," he said, nodding to me.

"Hey," I replied.

Big Dog crossed his arms and glared at Gruber. "What the hell?"

"She was at the grocery store. I had the spare key. I jumped in and took off. I didn't even think for a second she would have left a baby in the backseat."

"Yeah, that was pretty stupid," he agreed. "I'd say she's at fault, you're at fault, everyone's fine and everyone has what they want. I don't think she'll press charges. But I better never hear about something like this happening again." He pounded his fist into his other hand, indicating that next time he might not be in uniform when he ran into Gruber.

Gruber looked Big Dog up and down and swallowed hard. Big Dog outweighed Gruber by about 150 pounds, all of it muscle.

"There will never be a next time," he promised, crossing his heart with his index finger. "I swear."

Carl Costanza, Big Dog's partner, was talking to the lady in the parking lot. She was calming down, and he was helping her to remove the car seat and some personal items from the Corsica. Big Dog talked to her about pressing charges. She glared at Gruber though the plate glass, seemed to agree to let the incident go, and followed Big Dog back to the black and white. As she got in, she flipped Gruber off. Big Dog shut the door, grinning, and got in. They drove off, and Gruber started breathing again.

"So," I said, crossing my arms and looking down at the now humbled and humiliated Gruber.

"I suppose you're here for a completely unrelated matter?"

"I suppose," I said, letting him sweat a little. Actually, I was wondering if he would offer anything to incriminate himself on anything else that I was unaware of.

"Let me guess," he said. "You don't want me working with Stephanie Plum."

"What did she say?" I asked.

"She asked me if I wanted to be part of her little bounty hunting team," he said derisively.

"What did you say?"

"I told her no. What do you think? Were we going to get bowling shirts that said 'Bounty Hunters from Hell' on them and meet every Thursday night for beer and pizza? Everyone knows she's not a real bounty hunter. Besides, there's no way I'm working for a chick." I glanced quickly over to the girl behind the counter who was rolling her eyes and laughing silently to herself. I guess he didn't appreciate the fact that he was already in that position. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'd love to work under her," he said suggestively. "But, not like that."

"Good," I said. "Then we don't have a problem."

"No problem."

"Keep it that way." I turned to go. "Did she mention who else was going to be on the bowling team with her?"

"Bernie Kuntz."

I paused with my hand on the door. "Bernie Kuntz?" I knew the name sounded familiar, but I was having a hard time placing him.

"Kuntz Appliance," he said, helping me out. "Bernie works for his dad selling appliances and electronics. He and Stephanie used to eat lunch together in grade school. She was also talking about her best friend, Mary Lou Molnar…I mean Stanovick. I mean, seriously, she'd have to pay me a damn sight better than that to go to a class reunion every day."

I nodded. "Okay." I didn't say thanks. Just turned and left.

Gaspick was patiently waiting in the car. He didn't ask any questions when I got back in. I made a mental note to talk to him about his lack of inquiry, but at another time, when the situation in question was less personal.

We pulled out, cruised around, and took a call to investigate a possible gang fight. We drove to a residential neighborhood in an area where a number of high school gangs were battling for territory. Most of these fights were more a matter of posturing than actual gangland aggression, but you never know. We approached with caution, listening for gunshots, keeping watch for lookouts and signs that would warn others we were coming down the street. I didn't see anything suspicious. Just a teenage boy running around at the end of the block, swearing and cursing as he was flagging us down.

I got out and asked him to sit down on the curb. He was speaking Spanglish and I was only getting the English half. To my great surprise, Gaspick started speaking fluent Spanish to him, calming him down, getting him to breathe deeply and asking for him to start at the beginning. I waited for the translation.

Apparently, there was a disagreement over a girl. He claimed that the girl in question was very pretty, but he'd never even dared to talk to her, and he didn't know who told her boyfriend, a rival gang member, that he had been making moves on her. The boy looked scared. He said they shot him.

I looked him over. He had been shot in the arm, a few inches above the elbow, with a low caliber weapon, probably a .22. The hole was small and went right through. I had Gaspick get his personal information. I suggested we try to contact his parents. Gaspick responded that he boy lived with his mom and her boyfriend, but they didn't have a phone. So, we were debating putting the kid in the car and going to his house, but the kid was getting more and more agitated. He wouldn't sit still, and he was making me nervous. I really wished I could speak directly with him, because his body language was telling me that something was wrong. I could read him much better if I could speak to him.

Gaspick was talking to him again. The boy was in tears, shaking, saying that he didn't want to die. I told Gaspick to tell the kid he was going to be fine. He kept saying he'd been shot. I told him I understood that, and we would take him to be patched up, and that he would be fine. I told him it was just a minor wound and he was okay. He was holding his arm, sweating, shaking, looking around. He seemed confused. I told Gaspick that he might be going into shock and we needed to take him to the hospital and then find his parents.

The detective in me was taking over. As Gaspick explained things to the kid and walked him to the car, I walked the scene, looking in the grass for spent shells, bending down and checking the shoe prints in the dirt where a scuffle apparently had taken place.

I heard two shots. They came from a rifle, from a short distance, probably from one of the neighboring houses or a parallel street. I spun around, looking for the source, and saw Gaspick bend over the hood of the patrol car. The kid was in the back seat, panic stricken. He ducked down in the seat.

In slow motion, I watched Gaspick slide down the hood and slip off, landing on his side next to the car. The blood splatter across the hood gave me a direction, and I leaped behind a parked car, putting metal between me and the shooter.

I fumbled for my police radio. It had been a while since I'd been working under duress. I took a deep breath, hit the transmit button and said, "Officer down," giving our location. "Unknown sniper to the northwest, we have one juvenile pinned down in the back seat of the black and white. Request immediate assistance."

The dispatcher responded and I heard Costanza and Big Dog respond. They were on their way. My heart was pounding. I knew the ambulance couldn't approach until we had secured the area, so I ran to the side of the house, gun drawn, and scrambled around the corner of the house and into the back yard, running and ducking behind whatever cover I could find, looking for the source of the gun fire.

I found a spot where I felt relatively safe, between a house, a shed, and a parked car. I called in my position again and my intention to move further northwest. Dispatch acknowledged, and I turned my radio almost all the way down so the noise wouldn't give me away.

I heard sirens in the distance. The ambulance. Costanza and Big Dog would be coming in silent. I edged around another house and through a few bushes and found myself stuck between a house and a six foot privacy fence. I could see another house behind the flimsy fence, but I couldn't get a good enough look at the windows or the yard to feel comfortable walking down the length of the fence. If the shooter was in there, he would see me, but I wouldn't see him, and he'd have a clear shot at me.

I hunkered down behind a wheel barrow, tipping it up for limited cover, and called in the situation to Costanza. He acknowledged. I saw their black and white for a second as they cruised past the front of the house on the opposite side of the fence.

It seemed like an hour or two had passed, and I was thinking that Gaspick was bleeding to death while we played hide and seek with a sniper. It was infuriating. I wanted to jump up and rush the fence, but I knew better. I forced myself to wait, to be patient. It was damn near impossible to sit there, counting off the seconds that were slowly ticking by. I wanted to be on the other side of that fence backing up Costanza and Big Dog. Finally I heard them knocking on the door of the house, then exiting through the back door. I could see their movements as they were searching the yard.

The gate in the fence was unlocked and a chain slid to the ground. Big Dog stepped towards me and went right. Costanza went left. We were still on the hunt. I fell in behind Costanza and we swept the yard of the next house, finding nothing. Big Dog had circled back, and we were all three squatting behind a parked car, panting and running out of adrenaline.

We looked back down the alley where we now thought the shot probably originated from and decided the shooter was most likely long gone by now. We heard the faint whop-whop-whop of a helicopter in the distance. The crackle on the radio confirmed that a police helicopter was moving in to help determine if the scene was secure. Even if the shooter was still in the area, he would be much less likely to act because his chances of escape were minimized by the presence of the helicopter overhead.

We waited for the all clear from the chopper and then we raced back to Gaspick. I checked him for vitals, and found that he was still alive. The ambulance was reporting that they were at a parking lot three blocks away awaiting instructions. Big Dog and I were concerned that we might do more damage moving him. He was shot in the back twice, once in the chest near his left shoulder blade and once in the lower right below the kidney. In spite of my warnings to the department, he wasn't wearing a vest.

Costanza opened the back door of the black and white and reached in, checking the kid. I expected to hear the staccato of the kid's Spanglish again, but I didn't hear a sound. Costanza shook his head, indicating the kid was dead.

"That's impossible," I said, walking quickly up behind Costanza. "I only heard two shots. Gaspick took them both."

I reached in and looked at the blood that was staining the boy's shirt. It appeared to be minimal and from the wound to his arm. I pulled the boy's shirt up, slowly, and groaned silently, sick to my stomach. The .22 round had gone through his arm and into his side. There had been very little bleeding on the outside, but he had been bleeding internally. The boy had bled to death, and I had done nothing to help him. I'd told him it was nothing and promised him that he would be okay.

My head was spinning and I couldn't breathe. I just stared at the little dark spot on the baby-smooth skin of that young boy that should have been playing video games in his room right that minute, complaining that his parents didn't understand him and wondering what that horrible odor was coming from the two-week-old pizza box he'd left under his bed.

Costanza pulled me back out of the car and leaned in, making his own assessment. He stood and stepped back. Then he clapped a hand on my shoulder. He didn't say a word. His stance was saying, _it could have happened to any of us_.

The ambulance arrived and took their time stabilizing Gaspick. He did not regain consciousness before they took him away, red light and siren. The meat wagon arrived. Tom Bell arrived shortly after, working the homicide case on the boy. I stood back and let him work, answering his questions, although he was going to need to talk to Gaspick, if that was possible, to get more information about the shooter.

The black and white was towed from the scene as evidence and I caught a ride back to the station with Bell. I didn't even notice Costanza and Big Dog leaving.

After a few unpleasant minutes with the captain, I was given another day off, possibly more, pending the results of Bell's investigation.

I drove myself home, sitting in silence in the living room, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood and the house. Darkness fell, and I just sat there, hidden in the dark, unable to process any thoughts at all.

My doorbell rang about 8:30 p.m. I was hoping for Steph, but I wasn't having that kind of a day. I let the doorbell ring twice more before answering my mother's voice. I rose and opened the door to my mother and Grandma Bella. They descended on my kitchen with a housekeeping fury that only a Burg housewife in crisis mode can muster. I was forced into a chair at the kitchen table and a plate piled high with chicken in white sauce and homemade noodles and a tall glass of milk was shoved under my nose without ceremony. I may as well have been eight years old again.

Having me safely out of the way, all the lights were turned on, flooding the cluttered interior of the house like spotlights. The place was sparkling, top to bottom, within an hour. Having set my house to rights, these fine ladies together turned their attentions back to me.

My mother sat down beside me, taking my hand in hers. Grandma Bella sat opposite me. "Joseph, I heard that you were almost killed today," my mother said, as if she were reviewing my report card and demanding an explanation.

I was surprised by her words, "you were almost killed". That thought hadn't even occured to me. I was only thinking about the boy I'd let die and the rookie I was responsible for protecting that was probably still lying on the surgical table fighting for his life. I'd been an abysmal failure as a cop today. My mind had not been on work. My mind had been on Stephanie. I had given in to pride and set my sights on showing Ranger I could manage her. I had taken the babysitting assignment far too lightly. I acted like I was on a vacation. I had forgotten the danger we were in. Strolling into that neighborhood alone and not calling for backup when I knew there had been a shooting was reckless and stupid. And I was to blame for all of it.

"I can't talk about this, Mother," I said, pulling my hand away.

I looked up expectantly at my grandmother. She could always be counted on to go into a very over-the-top dramatic demonstration of her psychic abilities, which were questionable at best. She would sway back and forth with her fingertips pressed to her forehead like a gypsy fortune-teller and repeat, "I'm having a vision," in her thick Italian accent. Then she would make dire predictions of the future. These prophesies were mostly fueled by wishful thinking on her part when she was angry with someone.

This time, quite uncharacteristically, her deep black eyes held only sympathy for my pain. "You may be at fault for making some poor choices today, Joseph," she said, nodding slowly, "but there is no blame on you for the death of that boy. You didn't pull the trigger. Death comes for us all. What matters is how we live. You are my grandson. And you were taught to love, to protect, and to serve others before yourself. You have learned to do these things, Joseph. And I'm proud of you." My mother nodded in accord, patting my hand. I blinked my eyes, not sure she was really saying these things to me. Maybe I had fallen asleep in the recliner and was dreaming. This didn't sound anything like my Grandma Bella.

There had only been a few times in my life that I believed for a second that Grandma Bella had the gift of sight. I'm not saying that I believe she saw what I had been through that day or even that she could see into my future, but I think she had a heightened sense of perception about people. She could read them like a charlatan. And tonight, she'd read me with chilling precision.

That being the case, I expected her to ask where Stephanie was, but she didn't say anything more. Neither did my mother. She cleaned off my plate, storing the leftovers neatly in the fridge and gave my sink and counters a final wipe-down. She turned to say something, but waved it away.

I walked them to the door and gave them both a long hug and a kiss in parting. I closed the door slowly, watching them walking together down the sidewalk towards their car. I found myself filing away this strange scene as one of the best moments of my life, which definitely put my emotions into overload.

I walked Bob. Then I called the hospital for an update on Gaspick. He was out of surgery, but still in serious condition. He would need more surgeries to repair the internal damage, and he was in danger of infection. He had not awoke after surgery as expected, and was possibly in a coma. But there was hope. He still had a chance.

Then the nurse told me I had a message to call Detective Bell. Strange that he would leave a message for me at the nurse's station. I called his cell and he answered on the first ring.

"Morelli, I have the bullet fragments from Gaspick and the kid, and they are on their way to ballistics for testing, but I have to tell you, I think it was a setup."

"What have you got?"

"The boy's name was Juan "Little J" Martinez. He was a wanna-be Pee Wee King." Hearing the name put a rock in my gut. I hadn't even known the boy's name. I had left all of that to Gaspick. The term _Pee Wee King_ meant he was trying to get in with the Latin Kings gang but he was still under age.

"I talked to the boy's mother," he said without sympathy or feeling. "I got the names of his little gang. I rounded them up down the street at a malt shop," he snorted. "Talked to them about the shootings, and it turns out the guy they say shot the kid is a sixteen year old named Dimas Varela. Varela happens to have a brand new car. And he has been making other acquisitions, such as a 9mm Glock, and has just this week taken over as leader of his gang, the local wanna-be hybrid of MS-13."

"So, you what are you saying? You think the gang shooting of Little J has something to do with our recent cop killings?"

"I'm saying it's possible, and I think we need to look into it." Bell was pulling through a drive-thru window. He paused our conversation to place his order. "I cruised around the MS-13 markings and checked them against our last area photos, and Varela has not only posted his name, but he's bragging. Looks like Little J was an easy mark, possibly used as a perch on a hook to lure you boys into their sights. I need to talk to Gaspick to see if he has any more information and wait for ballistics before I can obtain a warrant."

"Hold it. Gaspick was hit with a rifle. Our boys were hit with 9mm. Little J was hit with a .22. I'm not seeing your connection with the ballistics testing."

"If I can get the warrant for the .22, I'm hoping I can come up with the other guns. I'm betting they are still in Varela's possession."

"If they're not, he'll walk." Bell was good at investigating and interviewing, but he lost a lot of cases on flimsy evidence.

"What do you suggest?" he asked.

"I don't know. Let me sleep on it and we'll look at it again in the morning."

"You're not supposed to be looking at anything," he said, reminding me that I was the one on virtual suspension. "But maybe I'll stop by in the morning to check up on you."

"Fine," I said, hearing a click in response. Bell wasn't much on manners.

I turned off my cell phone, the ringer on the wall phone, and all of the lights in the house. I sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off my vest and the compression shirt underneath. I wanted a shower, but I also didn't want to hear the water. I didn't want to hear anything but silence. I settled for a wipe down with a wash rag and a second coat of deodorant. I was about to lie down and try to sleep when I decided I had better call Steph to make sure she didn't come over during the night. I was afraid she might let herself in and scare the hell out of me in the middle of the night. Accidentally shooting Steph was definitely a possibility in my current state of mind, so I called her cell.

"Hey," she answered.

"Hey, Cupcake."

"What's up?" She hadn't heard.

"I needed to tell you before anyone else," I said, explaining how my day had gone disastrously wrong. "I do _not_ want you coming over here, you understand? I'm going to try to sleep, and I can't have you endangering yourself."

"I think I understand, but I'm really worried about you," she said.

"I need to be alone," I told her.

"Okay, but do me a favor," she whispered. I couldn't imagine what it would be. "Don't shoot Bob." She was joking.

"Smart-ass." I laughed in spite of myself. "It's tempting sometimes," I said, remembering all the furniture I'd had to replace, all the shoes he'd eaten, and all the take out he'd packed away. "But I'll do my best to control myself," I promised. I smiled at her through the phone.

"I love you, Joe."

"I love you too, Cupcake. Be safe," I told her.

"You too."

"'Night," I whispered.

"'Night," she said, and once again I heard the click as she disconnected.

Then silence.

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9 Tags and Brags

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the teen gang members, created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Bell and I were sitting at my kitchen table as the sun was coming up, drinking coffee and eating sausage, egg, and cheese breakfast biscuits. We were going over Bell's notes for the third time. I had a notebook and pen, and was doing more doodling than note taking.

"I want to see the kid's room," I said. I still couldn't bring myself to say his name out loud. "You think the mom will let us?"

"Right now, she wants answers. We don't have a suspect in custody. I think she'll be willing."

"Give her a call," I said, getting up to refill my cup.

Bell made the call, and an hour later we were standing in a small, sparsely furnished bedroom that decidedly belonged to a teenage male. There was a tattered black sheet hung up over the window instead of curtains. There were various yellow-colored handkerchiefs pinned to it and a large five-pointed crown had been drawn in the center with yellow chalk. Beneath the crown was written, "Amor de Rey y Corona". It means, "Love of King and Crowns", and is part of the Latin Kings language. It's what fellow LK's would say to each other on the street and would usually be combined with the gang's hand sign or handshake. That's how they identified themselves.

The once white walls and ceiling were completely covered with graffiti, as were the bedroom and closet doors, the cheap bed frame and the ratty dresser. All of the graffiti had been done with various ink pens, colored markers, and a minimal amount of spray paint. The carpet was disgusting, and the stagnant air stank faintly of a combination of marijuana, beer, gym socks, cigarettes, urine, vomit, and mildew, not necessarily in that order. There were stacks of notebooks lying around. There was no legible writing in any of them. They were filled with Latino Kings symbols and practice tags. The same designs covered the walls and ceiling.

These kinds of notebooks were called _black books_. Keeping a black book was just plain stupid. It was akin to video taping a robbery and then showing it around. We were always collecting these things and using them as evidence in court. A tag artist was known as a _writer_, and the writer kept a black book full of his own sketches and pieces which he had placed around town. When he was caught, we could link him to his previous crimes, namely vandalism and destruction or defacing of private property. This wasn't hard because the artists sign their works. Many are very talented and are motivated by fame to make a name for themselves, and that's how they get caught. Many times writers also copy the work of their rivals and these black books often provide authorities with a who's who directory of taggers and graffiti artists working in the area.

There was no sign of school books or homework. We suspected all of that was left in his locker at school. I wanted to check that out too. The clothing lying around was almost exclusively black, with some white and yellow mixed in. There was a stash of five girls' panties, a dime bag, and some crack pipes in a shoe box in the closet. Little J was wearing all of his jewelry every day, according to his mother. There was no computer, no stereo system, no television. He had an MP3 player on him when he'd been shot, but I didn't know where he had loaded his music from or where he had gotten it.

There was so little to his personal belongings that I felt some level of understanding as to why he was so eager to run with the gang. Gangs promised a profession to these kids, and monetary rewards. He was ambitious and eager to prove himself. And the allure of instant gratification through sex and drugs, not to mention money, that the gangs offered was much more incentive than anything the educational system was advertising.

I took some pictures and pulled out my notebook. Little J was definitely identifying himself as a Latin Kings gang member. He was 14 years old. He was a tagger, meaning a graffiti artist. He did not have gang tattoos, so he had not been initiated yet. That put him in the _would-be_ category. His little brother, Marco, was 10. He apparently idolized his brother. That made him a _could-be_.

Could-be's are kids between 6 and 10 who are used to carry drugs and guns because there is little chance they will be stopped by authorities, and they won't face penalties if they are caught because they're too young.

Would-be's range in age from 10 to 14 and are used primarily for tagging and stealing. Their job is to bring in money and advertise the presence of the gang. They're used as messengers and minders for the could-be's, who are usually their younger siblings. They have yet to be initiated, and often they are willing to do anything the leader asks because they want to be accepted so badly.

After the age of 14, a would-be is usually initiated into the gang. They are then considered regular gang members, also known as _associates_. These kids are almost exclusively engaged in fund raising. They rob and steal, sell drugs and guns, and are the most active in gang functions. The older the member, the more the gang demands that they take on responsibilities related to the criminal function of the "family". This can include fighting and killing for territory, pride, revenge, or the gang family honor.

If a regular member stays in the gang long enough, they will eventually become hard-core. Only five to ten percent of the gang is considered hard-core. These are the shooters and as such, are the leaders. They do the negotiating with the parent gangs and take the biggest bite of the apple. When a leader or leaders are taken out, the gang may fall apart if no clear line of succession has been established. The members are then absorbed into other local gangs with similar affiliations.

The most elite members are called the OG's, or original gangsters. They either started the gang or were born into it. The most established gangs in Trenton had about three generations born in. Since most of the gangsters have children when they are very young, a generation is only about fifteen years. Many gang photos show the young members holding their baby sons who are already dressed in gang colors. These children are lifers who never experience life outside the gang they are born into.

Since Little J was not a regular member of the LK's but a hanger-on, there wasn't likely to be a reprisal against Varela for his murder. While Bell was content to go on the word of Little J's crew that Varela was the shooter, I needed a motive. The judge would be justified in demanding that we provide evidence of that motive before he or she would authorize a warrant to search Varela's residence. I needed to go deeper to find out why Varela singled out Little J. What was their history together? Did they even know each other?

Bell had other things to do, so I asked him to hold off on presenting his findings for a few days while I did some poking around. He agreed. He still had his hopes pinned on the ballistics testing, and that bought me a little time.

With his mother's permission, I took Little J's black books and drove to the area of Trenton where Bell had seen some tagging by Varela. I was standing beside a section of overpass that was a few blocks from the middle school Little J had attended. The concrete wall had been _bombed_, which meant it was covered with artistic graffiti which mostly consisted of the writers' signatures. These signatures were just letters and numbers that had meaning to the writer, but didn't mean much to anyone else. That's how it was with most graffiti. The meaning was usually unclear. Unless a defined gang symbol was used, it was difficult to determine whether the writer was in it for the glory or if he was tagging for a crew.

I looked long and hard at the wall, trying to make heads or tails of anything. Finally, I spotted an LK crown, and I searched around it for anything that looked like it was from Little J. I scanned the notebook, and found a tri-color throw-up that matched. The letters were supposed to be LJM5 for Little J Martinez and the five was for the five points of the LK crown. That was his signature, or at least, one of them. The throw-up was highly stylized and barely legible, done in black outline, yellow filling, and white highlights. It wasn't the best, but it wasn't too bad as far as graffiti art goes. He had potential. But he was definitely going to be considered a _toy_ – an inexperienced writer. It wasn't unusual for a toy's signature to be painted over as a sign of disrespect by experienced writers.

The LJM5 signature had been marked through with a wide white stripe with a pair of blue tags written across it. The first tag was crudely painted and hard to make out, but it started with a V and ended in 13. It could belong to Varela. The other was stylized, although quickly painted, and appeared to be LINC13.

What caught my eye was an appended lettering written in the same blue paint. It was DT crossed out and "bling bling" written by it with bullets for the I's. DT was slang for detective or plain clothes cops. The cross out was disrespect or a threat to kill a cop, which was supported by the bullets. Bling bling was sometimes payment. It looked like an advertisement for pay for killing cops. I took a photo of the wall, then close ups of the signatures and the threatening message.

I scanned for more of the same color paint, but I didn't see anything. I walked farther down the wall, the way I thought the writers may have gone if they were walking, and I kept scanning for the fresh blue paint. Half a mile down, I was rewarded with another image of the "bling bling" message, but instead of DT there was a 5-0 with a slash, which meant police in general. I took another photo, and wondered who was paying and if I had missed a clue, but I didn't see anything else around the tag that indicated ownership.

I wanted to get closer to Varela. I only knew one man who knew the streets better than I did, and that was Ranger. Not to mention that he was Hispanic, and more likely to have an ear to the ground in this neighborhood. Even though we'd had words, I knew I could call on him when it was serious.

"Yo," he answered.

"Can you spare a few minutes?" I asked.

"Business or pleasure?" Ranger's idea of pleasure would probably be kicking my ass. At least, he could try.

"Business," I assured him.

"Where?"

I gave him the cross streets. I walked back to my car to wait. Ranger pulled in and we walked back down the path I had taken earlier. He looked at the walls with me, all the while keeping his eyes peeled for activity and making me nervous.

"That's not good," he said simply as I pointed out the DT message.

"No kidding," I said sarcastically. "Tell me something I don't know." _Please_, I thought, hoping he could.

Ranger scanned the wall again, searching for the blue paint. He was also reading some of the Spanish writing I probably wasn't picking up. He flipped through Little J's black book again and found a match to one of the smaller tags. It was written on the concrete with a black permanent marker. It was a crown, barely recognizable, with the same "Amor de Rey y Corona" motto below it.

"It's not crossed out," Ranger commented. "Got lost among the other throwies." He looked some more in the vicinity, but came up with nothing more.

We walked to the second site and I pointed out the 5-0 threat, and he agreed it was an ad for a price being paid for killing a cop.

"The question is, is this an ad rewarding anyone who kills a cop, or is it bragging that someone has been paid for killing a cop?"

I shrugged.

"I wonder if there's a mark for each cop," he said, thinking out loud.

"Would they all be painted here, or around the gang area?" I asked.

"There are no rules," he said. "It's up to the writer." He looked again at the wall, and back to the black book, and came up with another match, similar to the last crown and motto, but this one was marked out with a blue marker and had been tagged over by LINC13. "Looks like your boy had an enemy," Ranger said.

"So, I need to find out who LINC13 is," I said, making notes and photographing the wall again.

"You won't get the intel from a fellow gang banger," Ranger advised. "You need a rival writer to narc on him."

I agreed. The competition between serious street artists could be fierce, even deadly. They would gladly turn each other in because it eliminated or discouraged competition.

We began walking back to our vehicles and had about a block to go when Ranger put his hand on his gun and pulled it from his back holster. He stopped and listened. I froze, my heart pounding. He waited, watching the approach of three cars weaving back and forth over the center divide. The stereo was blaring rap music that could be heard a half mile away. We backed up the incline of an overpass, sitting under the girders, waiting while three car loads of black gang bangers, all old enough to be shooters, raced by.

"I guess I could have asked those fellas," I said to Ranger as we climbed back down to the sidewalk.

"Hey, it's your funeral," Ranger said.

"Would you attend my funeral?" I asked.

"Better yours than mine," Ranger answered.

We continued back to our vehicles in silence, both thinking. When I opened my car door, Ranger turned to me.

"Don't be a hero, Morelli," he said, and he was gone. Strange advice coming from someone I knew Stephanie secretly referred to as Batman. I guess super heroes don't like competition either.

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10 Dinner and a Show

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the teen gang members, created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

It was coming up on lunchtime when Lula's Firebird went blowing past me going in the opposite direction. Steph was in the passenger seat, and someone else was in the back. I turned around, but they were long gone. Unless they were headed for the cop shop, I didn't know where they were off to. Since I was supposed to be taking the day off, I just drove casually by to see if the Firebird was in the lot. It was. I guessed Steph finally got her man. That meant she would be heading over to the muffler shop to get her car out of hock.

I was sitting in my SUV, waiting for her in the muffler shop parking lot when Lula dropped her off.

"Spying on me, Morelli?" she asked, giving me the once over as I met her at the door.

"Just wondered if you'd like to have lunch," I said. "My treat." There was nothing like food to put Steph's mind at ease. The way to her heart really was through her stomach.

"What did you have in mind?" She forked over the money to the attendant behind the counter and signed the work order.

"Our usual spot," I told her. That was Pino's.

"I'll meet you there," she said, grabbing her keys from the attendant.

I waited until our subs had arrived and she was busy chewing before I asked the question that had been burning in my mind for the past hour. "Who was the FTA you were after at the mall the other day?"

"Melon-head." Only Steph would have an FTA named after a fruit.

"You mean Sam Sporky?"

"Yep."

"So, how'd that go?"

"Fine," she said, quickly taking a sip of her drink and another big bite of her sandwich.

I chewed on a potato chip and waited until she was closer to being able to answer my next question.

"What was he charged with?" I asked.

"He skipped out the check at Marsilios," she said. "Bobby V. caught him when he came back for his sports jacket." From the look on her face, I gathered the responding officers had to mop him up before taking him in.

"Ouch," I said, laughing. "So, you caught him at the mall?" I knew there was more to this story. There was always more to the story.

"Well, not exactly," she admitted. "He kind of got fired when his boss found out he wasn't at work the other day."

"Where was he working?"

"Lens Crafters. He was supposed to be sitting in a little booth grinding lenses all day, but he stole a mannequin from American Eagle Outfitters and left it in the chair while he was taking a little time off. He might have gotten away with it, except that when I asked for him, the manager noticed that the mannequin had a smaller head and was way better dressed."

"Not to mention he didn't respond," I surmised.

"That too."

"So, you got him canned?"

"I still owed him for last time," she said defensively.

"Last time?"

This got me a grimace. "Last time I had to chase him through three yards. A dog bit my pants, an old lady shot at me, then he rolled me in garbage. After I had him in cuffs, he spit on my shoe. I owed him."

"Nice guy," I said. "I guess you're even now?"

"Not hardly," she said, "But I'm working on it."

"Maybe next time." She had me grinning, and it felt good.

"So, how are you doing?" She looked serious again, and I wasn't in the mood to come down from this temporary high.

I looked up as Richie Biglo, Pino's bartender, came around the end of the bar carrying a couple crates of booze without breaking a sweat. I hadn't really noticed that Richie was that strong. I'd usually been more concerned that he was pouring my beer from the right tap. He wasn't usually paying as much attention to what he was doing as he was to what was being said. Richie was one of the few who got the Burg gossip first hand. He had his finger on the pulse of the city.

"Hey, Cupcake," I said, flicking my finger towards Richie. "Look at that."

Steph followed my eyes and watched Richie hefting the crates. "What?"

"Muscle," I said. "What do you think?"

"Richie? He's always here. He never leaves."

"Maybe he should get out more," I suggested. "You could ask him. Besides, he mostly works nights. Maybe you could pick up some of these skips during daylight hours, huh?" I knew I would prefer that.

"Huh," she said, thinking it over. "Well, I guess it couldn't hurt to ask him. He's got the goods on everyone. Might come in handy to know what he knows."

"Exactly," I said, trying not to press her too hard, but not wanting to let the moment get away from her either. I motioned for Richie to join us. And hour later, Steph had another name on her list and I had one more reason to sleep well at night.

As I walked her to her car, she turned to me, biting her lower lip. "I don't suppose you're free tonight?"

"What's up?" I asked.

"Dinner." She looked up at me expectantly. Her big, blue eyes were even more difficult to refuse than Bob's.

"Six o'clock?"

"Same as always," she said, looking hopeful.

"See you there, Cupcake," I said, pulling her close and kissing her lightly on the lips.

She felt my vest under my long-sleeved tartan shirt. I was wearing the shirt untucked, covering my vest and gun. I saw her eyes register worry.

"I still don't know anything, Cupcake."

"Would you tell me if you did?"

I touched my forehead to hers. "If I show you something, you have to promise me that you won't go off investigating on your own. Got it?"

She nodded, and I fished my digital camera out of my SUV. I showed her the photos I had taken that morning. I explained what she was looking at. She swallowed hard as she took in the threatening messages against Trenton's finest.

"You don't think the shootings were accidents, do you?" she asked, reaching out and touching my vest again.

"I don't have any evidence yet, but I'm working on it."

"How can I help?" She wasn't going to stay on the sidelines. I knew that. But at least if I tried to keep my hand in, agreeing to work with her instead of shutting her out, maybe I could maintain some level of control. It was worth trying, I thought.

"Just keep your eyes open," I told her, "but don't go looking. I'm hoping to find a rival tagger, so if you see anyone painting, call me right away, okay? But don't approach them. I don't want you becoming a target like you usually do. I have enough to worry about," I said, taking her face in my hands and kissing her again.

"I know you do," she said, being more agreeable than I had expected. She pulled back slowly and walked around to her car. "See you at six?"

"See you at six," I said, climbing into the SUV.

I watched her pull away, heading back to the bonds office.

I stopped by Little J's middle school and had a look in his locker. Nothing helpful turned up. He was a poor student, and he wasn't popular, according to the school counselor who had seen him off and on for depression. He'd been suspended twice for verbal outbursts in class, but he hadn't been notably violent. He'd been resisting authority more and more, but that was to be expected if he was involved with a gang.

I searched the halls for another "bling bling" message, but didn't see anything. I asked if Varela had been a student at the school. He hadn't been. At least, not with that name. The other problem we had with tracking some of the Hispanic kids was that they would take their mother's surname sometimes after they had run into trouble with the law. It gave them a fresh record for awhile, but usually they were in twice as much trouble once we put two and two together and realized who we were dealing with. I wondered if Varela wasn't one of those. I was trying to look at all of the possibilities, not ruling anything out.

After running home to shower and change, I pulled up to the Plum house at ten to six. I sat down in the living room with Steph's dad, Frank, and we watched news footage of a five alarm fire at a chemical warehouse. I had always liked Frank. I thought someday, if I married into this family, I would end up just like him. He was a retired postal worker. He stoically put up with all the craziness around him, trying to escape it once in a while by driving a cab part time and hanging out at the lodge with his drinking buddies. We had enjoyed a nice cigar behind the garage together on occasion. Frank was an okay guy.

Steph came tearing through the door with about thirty seconds to spare. Frank and I got up and wandered into the dining room behind her, taking our assigned seats. Grandma Mazur appeared from the kitchen with a large serving bowl piled high with Chicken Tetrazzini.

Steph's mom appeared with a bottle of wine in one hand and a half full glass in the other. I could tell from the look on her face that Valerie, Albert, and the kids had been over. She looked overwhelmed. Still, a good Burg housewife would let nothing short of nuclear disaster cause dinner to be even a minute late.

"Joseph," she said, suddenly beaming. "What a nice surprise!"

"Good to see you, Mom," I said, standing and giving her a warm hug. She seemed to be satisfied that things were on the mend between me and Steph since I had called her Mom. I had never called her Helen. She was always Mom or Mrs. Plum to me. When I turned to take my seat, I caught a warning look from Steph. I gave her the same warm smile, but she looked away, fiddling with her napkin.

Once Steph's mom and Grandma Mazur were seated, the customary passing of the plates began. Frank usually spent ninety percent of dinner absorbed in his plate, refusing to look around or be dragged into conversation. While this was a relief from the typical grilling by a girl's father, it also meant it was me – alone – against three women. Stephanie would gladly feed me to the wolves. There was no mercy to be had at this table.

"So, Joseph," her mom started. "I have been following the news about the shootings. You didn't know any of those poor officers, did you? I mean, if you did, I'm sure I would have heard." I was sure she would have too.

"No, I didn't know them personally," I assured her, forking up some chicken, buying time.

Grandma Mazur piped up, as expected. "I heard from Bertie Greenstein at the beauty parlor that you were almost killed yesterday."

Mom's fork fell to her plate with a loud clank. Frank looked up, and Stephanie stopped chewing, waiting for my answer.

"Well, not exactly," I said, trying to downplay the drama. "I wasn't standing anywhere near Gaspick when he was shot."

"But you were there," Grandma Mazur said, trying to clarify the facts.

"Benny Gaspick?" Mom asked, shocked. "The cop who arrested Mo?"

"The same. He's in serious condition, but we're expecting him to make it," I said, suddenly feeling incredibly guilty that I hadn't called the hospital for an update. I was sure I would have been notified if there had been any change.

"Mavis Rheinhart said you were the detective assigned to all four cases and that they must be related," Grandma Mazur continued, ratcheting up the tension in the room.

"No. Actually, I'm no longer a homicide detective," I said, wrapping some noodles around my fork and reaching for my glass. "I'm working as a Field Training Officer, helping some of the rookies learn the ropes."

"You were busted down?" Mom gasped.

"No, no," I said, trying to calm her nerves. "I just needed a break. It was voluntary. Actually, I requested the assignment."

She didn't look like she believed me. "But, Emma Rogers was sure you were working the cases too," she added, looking back to Grandma Mazur for confirmation that their sources of gossip were in agreement.

"I am working the first three, but not Gaspick's shooting. And as far as I know, all of these incidents are unrelated." I saw Mom shoot a quick look from me to Stephanie. Her mother's intuition was humming and she was silently pumping Stephanie for information.

"This is great Tetrazzini," Steph said, stuffing her mouth full and looking down at her plate, doing a poor imitation of Frank. Frank was trying not to smile.

"Stephanie," her mother said in that tone only a mother can deliver, "what do you think about Joe's new job?"

She choked a little and took a long swig of her wine. "It's great. We'll be able to spend more time together," she said, looking to me for help.

"I hope so," I said to her, my eyes lingering, showing her I meant every word.

"Well," her mother said, seemingly satisfied with that answer. "I hope that we'll be seeing you at dinner more often then, Joseph."

I was still watching Steph's startled expression. She bit her lip nervously, waiting for my response.

"That sounds great, Mom," I said, smiling at Steph and then turning back to her mom. "I've really missed your pineapple upside-down cake," I told her. That was Steph's favorite, and if I could get her mom to make it more often, that would be kudos for me in her book.

"I'll make sure to have it ready if you'll come back tomorrow night," she said, trying to tempt me.

"I'll be here," I promised, turning to see Steph's glazed expression as she contemplated not only having her cake, but taking home the leftovers. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. She was too funny.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat with you people, but I have to get ready for my date," Grandma Mazur said, folding her napkin and rising from the table.

"Date?" Mom asked. "What date?"

"Carl is picking me up. We're going to a meeting of the Rogue Taxidermists."

"What?" Mom gasped. "Where is this meeting?"

"Out on Black Canyon Road."

"After dark? What are you thinking? You can't go out into the woods with a man you hardly know to meet a bunch of Rogue Taxidermists. Are you crazy?"

"You don't need to worry about me," Grandma Mazur assured her. "I'm packing." She was referring to the .45 long-barrel she'd borrowed from her friend, Elsie, ages ago. She had never given it back, and Elsie would probably never remember having had it in the first place.

"What exactly is a Rogue Taxidermist?" I asked her.

"Some of them just do roadkill, and some like to mix and match to make their own creations."

"Excuse me?" I said, "Mix and match?"

"Yeah, you know. They can make anything you want. Two headed frogs, squirrels with sharks teeth, fish with feathers. You name it."

"Exploding beavers," Steph muttered under her breath.

"Exactly," Grandma Mazur exclaimed. "Well, I'm off," she said, bounding up the stairs like a school girl.

"She's off alright," Frank said. "Off her rocker."

Mom poured herself another glass of wine, emptying the bottle, then emptying her glass.

"Well, I'm certainly glad that you're going to be keeping us safe on the streets again, Joseph," Mom said, trying to turn the conversation back to me.

"I'll do my best," I told her.

She reached out and patted my hand. "I know you will. And if you can, keep an eye out for Stephanie while you're at it."

"She's doing fine, Mom," I told her, flashing Steph a reassuring smile. "She's putting together her own team to help her with take downs. Isn't that right, Steph?"

She shot me a look that said I'd just cancelled out the points I'd earned with the cake.

"Uh, yeah. That's right. I'm working on it," she told her mom, her voice two octaves too high.

"Who do you have working with you?" she asked, sounding nervous.

"It was Joe's idea," she sputtered, defensively.

"I didn't ask whose idea it was. I asked who you were working with."

"Well, of course, Lula. And Sally." She paused, gauging her reaction before continuing. "Dillon Ruddick, Mary Lou, and Bernie Kuntz."

"Don't forget Richie Biglo," I reminded her.

"Mary Lou has children," her mother argued. "You can't let Mary Lou go chasing rapists and murders down the street. What if something awful happened to her? How would you ever explain it to her children?"

Steph didn't have an answer. She just sat there with her jaw working up and down.

"I don't think Mary Lou will be chasing after anyone dangerous," I told her. "She just felt left out, so Steph told her she could come along when they pick up some of the easier cases, like the shoplifting grannies or the potato chip addicts."

Steph smiled and I knew I had earned my cake points back.

"Oh," her mother said with a sigh of relief. "Well, I guess that would be okay."

I was thinking the wine was finally making her mellow. I was proved right when Grandma Mazur reappeared wearing head to toe camouflage and carrying a butterfly net. Frank snorted some coffee out his nose, and Stephanie grabbed my arm, trying to maintain composure.

"Well, I'm ready to go!" Grandma Mazur sang out as she strolled down the hall and looked out the front window. "Here's my sweetie now."

The doorbell rang, and Grandma Mazur opened the door for Crazy Carl Coglin. He stopped to pet the stuffed black cat he'd given Grandma some time ago. She'd made a perch for it on the table in the foyer. He pressed a hidden button and the cat meowed and his eyes lit up yellow. It was truly scary.

"Blackie says he's missed you," Grandma Mazur told him, planting a kiss on him that made us all look away.

"Ready to head out into the wild black yonder?" he asked, opening the door. "I found a new route on the map I want to try. There's heavier traffic on it, and we will have a better chance of picking up some large game. I got the big freezer working again."

The door shut behind them, and we all jumped up to look out the front window to see what he was driving. It was an old black hearse with what appeared to be a full size freezer sitting in the back.

"Do you think the old bat would fit in there?" Frank asked hopefully.

"Frank!" Mom said, smacking him on the arm. He still looked hopeful as we all returned to the table for spice cake.

After dessert, we were dismissed after giving promises to return for dinner the next night. I walked Steph to her car, and leaned in to kiss her goodnight.

"Thank you," she said between teasing little kisses.

"For what exactly?" I asked.

"For coming to dinner," she said, rewarding me with a more lingering little kiss. "For helping me with the team building." Another little kiss. "But most of all, for trusting me," she said, pulling me into a real lip lock.

By the time she released me, I didn't think I'd ever be able to keep another secret from her again. I was sure I'd change my mind about that once there was some distance between us, but I was definitely seeing the benefits to spilling some of the details.

"I love you, Cupcake," I whispered.

"I love you too, Joe."

"See you tomorrow," I said, pulling her door open and forcing myself to let her go.

"At six," she said, finishing my sentence.

I shut her car door, and watched her pull away. Frank waved at me from the door, signaling me to meet him around back.

We sat on two over-turned paint cans behind the garage and smoked two fine cigars in the dark.

"We survived another night," Frank said, blowing out a lungful.

"Yeah," I said, following his example. The smoky haze around us might not have been physically healthy, but emotionally, it was better than a million dollars worth of therapy.

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11 Games People Play

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the teen gang members, created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

The next morning, I sat in the captain's office listening to a lecture that ended in a spiel about going where I was needed most. Apparently, the captain felt I most needed to find out why our guys were being targeted, and he meant yesterday. So, I was now the primary detective on four murders and one attempted murder and, when called, I still needed to back up the rookies. No pressure. Bell was assigned to assist me on the murder investigations. I was sure he loved that.

I took the box of files the captain had generously provided and stomped back to my old office. I dropped the box loudly on the desk and slouched down into my old desk chair. My office was bare. I had taken all of my personal things home, but the computer and department office supplies were still there. I opened the files, reading each one carefully, reviewing the coroner's reports. I called Bell, and he brought me hard copies of the interviews he had conducted. I was particularly interested in reading the somewhat vague and at times conflicting information he had gathered about Varela from Little J's fellow gang wanna-be's.

Over an hour later, I was ready to head out, but I didn't really have a direction. On the one hand, I was telling myself that I needed to focus only on my job and stop thinking about Stephanie. But, I quickly realized that was going to be impossible. If anything happened to her because I had taken that attitude, I would never be able to forgive myself. I needed to find some kind of middle ground – some kind of balance. I decided to continue checking up on her, but that whenever I was on the streets, I would have to focus only on the scene around me. I didn't know how Ranger could work with her. She was too much of a distraction for me, and she wasn't even around.

I wanted to check with Sunny again to see if she'd talked to Steph about Mooch. I had debated calling Mooch, but I figured sooner or later Mooch would slip up and Steph would piece it together. Mooch wouldn't consider a slip up on something like that to be serious, especially since I would be the one to suffer the consequences. Calling Mooch would doubtless come back to bite me. Bringing Mooch on board had be appear to be her idea.

I was driving down Hamilton Avenue when I spotted one of the rookies getting out of his patrol car and going into a deli. I pulled up two spots down in my SUV and got out. I was still in uniform, so no one walking by paid any attention when I walked up to his driver's door and tried it. It opened. I reached in and flipped all the switches. Then I got back in my SUV and went around the block, parking on the opposite side. I wanted a good view.

Ten minutes later, the rookie got back into his car. When he turned the key in the ignition, the lights, siren, stereo, radio, windshield wipers – everything – went off. He nearly jumped out of his skin. Some guys will just leave a note warning the rookie not to leave his doors unlocked, but I had always found this routine to be not only more amusing but far more effective. Ordinarily it was a good laugh, but today it didn't feel the least bit funny.

I drove on down the street, pulled up to Sally's and went inside.

"Good Afternoon, Officer!" Sally greeted me rather loudly. Two of her customers high-tailed it out the front door behind me. "Thank goodness," she groaned. "Those imbeciles didn't have any money and they just wouldn't leave. I really didn't want to have to shoot them." I heard the hammer of a big gun being released from below the counter.

"You should have called," I told her.

"Well, maybe next time," she grinned. She took a long drag and blew out the smoke above my head. "So, what's your pleasure this time, Officer Hottie?"

"Just wondering if you'd had a chance to talk to Steph yet." I leaned against the glass case, looking down at Sally's latest firearms acquisitions.

"Oh, yeah, Mooch," she said. "She ain't been in, but I could call her, tell her I had a special on handcuffs or something." She raised an eyebrow at me. I peeled a twenty off the bills in my pocket and handed it to her.

She pulled out her cell and dialed the number she had written in a little black book. She got a recording and glared at me. "What's with this girl and cell phones?" I gave her the new number and she tried again.

"Steph? Sally. Cuffs are on sale." She paused and hung up. "She's on her way."

"Call me."

She nodded. I turned and left.

I cruised over to Pino's and had lunch with two of my old high-school friends, Stanley Skulnik and Ray Daily. We hung out and watched sports at each other's houses a lot, although most of the time we ended up at my house since I wasn't married, and that usually meant we were free to belch at will and make a mess if we wanted. Our boys' nights had become sporadic since I had been with on and off with Stephanie.

As luck would have it, the basketball playoffs were scheduled for that night. Here I was, scheming to get Steph back, and these pals of mine were hoping we were still off just so they could watch the game. They were already making plans when I got there. They wanted to place our order at Pino's for pizza and beer and needed a destination for delivery. So, after a few minutes of heated arguing in which we all reviewed who was willing to blackmail who with what, I gave in to the not-so-subtle peer pressure and agreed to play host.

I was hoping for a call from Pawn-Shop-Sally, but my phone wasn't ringing. I called Steph to see where she was.

"Hey," she said, answering her phone on the third ring.

"Hey. Where are you?" I asked.

"Just picking up a new pair of handcuffs. Sally was having a sale. These cost me thirty instead of forty." She was proud, but I was gritting my teeth. Sally just took me for $10. She'd better have come through.

"Any more additions to your crew?" I asked.

"Not yet," she said, and that was all I got.

"What are you doing today?" I pressed.

"I'm trying to get a game plan together, you know, organize my new crew. We're going after our first skip today. That is, if I can find him."

"Yeah? Who?"

"Stinky Sanders." The way she said the name I could tell she had been fooled by his misleading moniker. She's been close to running into him a few times, but she didn't seem to remember him.

Stinky Sanders was a hard core drug dealer in the Trenton underground. He was in league with men like Jamal Alou, a gunsmith who was famous for his custom jobs, and Lionel Boone who had been known to have supplied guns to African warlords. As usual, she was in way over her head.

"What exactly was Stinky picked up for?" I asked as casually as I could.

"Assault. He got in a fight with another guy at a bar."

"Which bar?" I asked, probably too urgently.

"Why?" she asked, suddenly picking up my anxiety with her "Spidey-sense".

"Cupcake, Stinky Sanders is a big time drug dealer and gun runner. Why isn't Ranger taking this one?"

"Because Ranger thinks I can handle it," she fired back. Ranger didn't know about it, and I was on thin ice. I could hear it cracking.

"Did you ask him for it?" I pressed.

"That's none of your business, Morelli." So, now I was Morelli, not Joe. Great.

"He's dangerous, Cupcake. He's been in lock up so often they just keep his room open. He treats places like Rahway and Bayside like the Holiday Inn."

"How do you know?" she asked, her Spidey-sense humming.

"Because I've put him there a few times."

"Then why is he out?"

"Money and influence," I answered, not wanting to get into it. The truth was the justice system didn't want him either. Sometimes the wardens flat looked for ways to spring him. Sometimes the judge saved them the trouble and gave him a suspended sentence or accepted time served. Sanders was a dangerous man living what would undoubtedly be a short life.

She paused. "So, you think he might remember you, and if he thinks I'm associated with you, he might take his revenge out on me?"

"Something like that." Actually, I hadn't even thought of that, but it was a good ploy just the same, so I ran with it. "I would really rather you let Ranger handle this one."

"I'll think about it," she said, but I knew she wasn't going to give it up now that she thought I had given her another no-confidence vote. She just had to prove me wrong. _Damn_, I thought. It seemed like I could never win with her. "We can talk about it tonight," she said.

"Okay," I agreed. "The guys will be over about six-thirty, and the game starts at seven. Maybe you could come early," I suggested.

There was silence on the other end.

"Hello?" I said.

"You promised my mother we would be at dinner tonight," she reminded me.

"Oh, crap." I gnashed my teeth again, trying to hold back the long line of expletives that were struggling to escape.

"You'll just have to call off the game," she said.

"Cupcake, it's the playoffs," I argued, as if that made it all okay.

"Joseph!" she shouted at me over the phone. "I am not going over there alone. It was your idea to give my mother the impression that we are still together. How am I going to explain to her that we're not and that you thought a basketball game was more important than your promise to her?"

"You lie," I told her simply. "You do it all the time." This got me an indignant snort from the other end of the line. "You tell her I had a break in my case and I had to work. You can enjoy the pineapple upside-down cake all by yourself…or, you could bring me some. That would seem more appropriate," I said hopefully.

"You wish!" she blurted out. "Joseph Morelli, you're going to dinner with me tonight, and that's all there is to it!"

"You could be working too," I suggested. "Then you could have pizza and beer with us," I coaxed. "Besides, I miss you," I said as tantalizingly as I could. She snorted at me again. "Bob misses you," I said sweetly. I know using Bob the dog as a bargaining chip is a cheap shot, but I didn't mind.

"I hate you," she spat at me.

"See you at six?" I asked.

"Yeah," she groaned. "I'll be there."

_Guilt-ridden, but present_, I thought.

"The cake will still be good tomorrow," I assured her.

"To hell with tomorrow. I'm getting some after the game."

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12 Cupcake and Krimpets

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members, created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

I was feeling pretty wound up, and I was almost glad when I got a call to join Pendersmythe, the rookie I scared half to death at lunch. He was headed to a domestic disturbance and had requested backup.

I pulled up behind him three blocks from the address with my Kojak light flashing on top of my SUV. He waved, and I followed him to the building which was located in a very low-income area near downtown Trenton. I put on my gun belt and checked my gun, securing it, and then I made sure Pendersmythe did the same.

We entered a ghetto-style apartment building and walked up three flights of stairs and down the hall to the apartment door. We could hear men's voices inside arguing loudly and a woman crying and screaming for them to stop. I pulled out my Mag-light and knocked on the door. And elderly man answered, babbling in Portuguese, then in English, that his son had come home drunk and was talking disrespectfully to him and his wife and was tearing up the apartment. I asked if his son lived there, and he responded that he sometimes did but hadn't lately.

We followed the man into the apartment. A robust woman who looked three inches taller than she was because of her black and gray hair-bun was brandishing a rolling pin and shouting at a man in his mid-twenties who looked like he'd had a drinking problem since he was six. The offender had long dark hair and was way more into rock and roll and joints than getting a job, according to his mother. He was wearing a ripped Van Halen T-shirt and jeans. He was being held down by two big black guys with Marine Corp tattoos and buzz cuts.

"I want him arrested," the father was saying. "How much you charge me to make him sleep this off in jail? Not here."

"You'll have to file a complaint against him so that I can arrest him. Since he lives here and I didn't witness him doing anything illegal, I can't arrest him."

"What?" The man started screaming at us in pure Portuguese while waiving his walking cane around. The rookie tucked himself in behind me, edging closer to the door.

"If I don't see him breaking the law, I can't arrest him unless you file a complaint against him."

"I can't afford to do that," he was saying. The woman was crying hysterically now.

"It doesn't cost you anything," I explained, trying to stay calm so he would calm down.

"I don't want to sign, just take him," he argued.

"I can't arrest him unless I see him acting out," I explained.

Suddenly, the man stopped yelling and smiled. "Oh," he said, nodding. "Okay. Boys, let him up," he ordered.

The two black men stood, releasing the long-haired drunk who started flailing his arms and screaming obscenities at his father. His mother was yelling at them both, and then the son came charging at me. I stepped out of the way while extending the Mag-light, allowing him to clothesline himself. He fell to the floor gagging and gasping. I knelt down and placed my hand on his diaphragm and pressed all my weight into it so he couldn't breathe. His eyes were big as half-dollars and they were locked on me.

"I'm going to let you up, and when I do, you're going to put your hands behind your back so I can cuff you. And you're going to walk calmly and quietly down to the patrol car. Do you understand?" I made it clear there was no other option.

He tried to nod. I slowly released him and yanked him up off the floor. He was dazed and confused, but he complied. I cuffed him with Pendersmythe's cuffs, and the rookie took him away without further incident.

"I didn't think you could handle that boy," the father said. "I had to call those fellas from down the hall to help me, and they had a dickens of a time. And they were Marines." He seemed to be proud of the fact that his boy was so difficult to take down.

"All in a day's work," I told him, taking the Kojak light off the top of my SUV.

My phone had vibrated twice in my pocket while we were messing around. I looked at the readout. It was Steph. I rang her back.

"What?" I asked.

"You asked me to call you if I saw anyone tagging."

"Yeah. Where."

"I was down at the button factory talking to Carol Nadich on her break. After the break was over, I was sitting in my car and I saw these two guys run around from behind the building and into the metal building where the break area is. Everyone else had gone back to work and the place was empty. One was tagging the wall inside. I tried to grab him, but all I got was his leather bomber jacket."

I squeezed my fist till my knuckles were white. "I told you not to do anything. Just watch and call me."

"I did call you. You didn't answer."

"I was on a call."

"Well, I'm sorry."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm at the button factory office with Carol reporting the incident. You want to come write up a report on the vandalism?"

"Sure. I'll be right there," I told her, hanging up.

I peeled rubber and pulled into the button factory parking lot twenty minutes later after battling rush hour traffic. I talked to the office manager and followed Steph out to the break area.

There was a tag in black spray paint, 420BURN. The number 420 could mean a number of things. It was the code for a homicide on CSI and had been picked up into urban lingo. It was also used in reference to smoking pot, which was most likely since BURN could be short for burn-out or pot-smoker. The other possibilities were Hitler's birthday and the date of the Columbine massacre.

"Describe the boys."

"They were mid-teens. The one with the spray paint was white with straight, light brown hair hanging down to his shoulders, wearing slightly baggy jeans, a brown and white T-shirt, and this brown bomber jacket," she said, holding the jacket out to me. We looked through the pockets. There was a hole in one waist pocket, a couple of plastic bottle caps with prize numbers printed inside, a black permanent marker for tagging, and a two-inch buck knife. It was old and the deer-antler grip was scratched and worn.

"And the other?"

"Black, husky, half inch of hair, wearing black jeans with wide legs and black canvas high-top sneakers with white toes and laces. He didn't say anything. He ran when I yelled at them. The white kid cussed me out and was very angry."

I took a picture of the wall and the jacket and the contents of the jacket. I took down the information for a report and then Steph and I went cruising around looking for the boys. They were on foot, so they were probably locals.

We were driving by some back street businesses when Steph signaled me that she'd spotted them. I pulled over and we got out. They were sitting in a laundromat watching the clothes spinning in the dryers.

"What are they doing?" she asked.

"Watching for someone to leave their clothes unattended, looks like."

"Why?"

"Maybe to sell them, maybe to wear them. Who knows."

We walked in and the boys saw Steph, then me. I suddenly remembered I was in uniform when they took off at a run through the back. A lady yelled and I took off after them. Steph ran after me. We chased them around to the front where the white kid pushed a man away from the door of his car as he was getting out. The boys had locked the doors and the man was beating on the window of his own car as the engine turned over. He jumped back, watching his toes as the gears were grinding. The car lurched forward, stopped, lurched forward, stopped. The car died and was started again as I reached the driver's window. The car again lurched forward, stopped, and died. The idiot couldn't drive stick.

"Get out of the car," I yelled at the driver. I had pulled my gun and had it trained several inches above his head. The black kid jumped out and ran, never looking back. Steph tackled him, jumping off only long enough to zap him with her stun gun. The kid was twitching in the dirt and I was thinking we were in for one hell of a law-suit.

The white kid got out of the car like I told him to and I cuffed him and walked him back to the sidewalk. The owner of the car got in and took off. He didn't want to press charges, and I didn't ask any questions. I had bigger problems.

"Name," I demanded.

The boy glared at me, wanting me dead. I was used to that kind of defiance. It didn't phase me. I stood with hands on hips looking down at him, about to start demanding answers. Instead, I got undermined when Steph sat down on the curb next to him, his jacket in her hand. She had a softer touch, which was often the reason her skips got away from her.

"Why did you break into the button factory break room?" she asked as if they were old friends.

"Maybe we were hungry," he said sarcastically. He glared at her, clearly thinking she was stupid for even asking. I was sure we'd gotten our answer, though, when his stomach gave a long, loud growl.

"Were you hungry?" she asked. You'd think he was a lost puppy to be pittied the way she said it.

He shrugged. This kid was working it. He'd take her for every cent she had if I wasn't standing there.

"Why did you tag the wall?" I asked, drawing his attention back to me.

The boy looked guilty as he averted his eyes. His stomach rumbled again.

"What's 420BURN mean?"

He shrugged again. Stephanie took his chin in her hand and gently turned his face to hers. He pulled back and called her a few choice names, getting very angry very quickly. He didn't like being worked over, even if it was being done with kid gloves.

"Hey!" I yelled, getting his attention. His anger was directed back at me now. "I only have one more question for you," I told him, indicating that he would cooperate with me or else. "Do you know where I can find LINC13?"

I saw recognition flash in his eyes.

"Where can I find him? What's his name?" I demanded.

"That's two questions," he spat at me.

"Please tell us," Steph said. "We need to find him."

"No shit," the kid said. "Wait long enough, and his gang will find you," he told her in a harsh tone.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Steph asked.

"What do you know about the threats being made against police officers?" I demanded.

"I know you may as well paint a target on your back as wear that uniform, ya dumb Jake."

"Who's paying?" I asked.

"Who cares? It's all good," he said, giving me a nasty grin.

"I care," Steph told him. "I brought your jacket back. Maybe we can get you something to eat." She was still trying to buy his trust. I knew from the start that was a wasted effort, but there was no way to tell her that.

"I don't need no handouts, especially from a bacon bitch like you," he said, spitting in her face.

I was about to yank him up off the sidewalk and knock him into next week, but Steph put up her hand to stop me and slowly wiped the spittle off her pretty face. _Oh boy, was this kid is trouble now,_ I thought There was a click-click, and the kid looked down at the silver bracelet on his wrist. She had one cuff on her own wrist and one on his. He wasn't going anywhere now.

I tried not to laugh as I walked over to check on his buddy who was lying quietly on his face. He was breathing, and he was cuffed. Good thing Steph had been to Sally's for a second pair. I picked the black boy up - no easy task - and dragged him back to my SUV and stuffed him in the back.

Steph had opened her big black bag and pulled out a Butterscotch Krimpet, her favorite Tastykake, and was eating it slowly, taking small bites in time with the rumbling of the white boy's empty stomach.

"It's a shame you don't want any," she said, licking her lips. "These are so good. They're sweet and so filling." She took another slow bite, rolling her eyes in ecstasy.

He was swearing at her again, and she gave him a look that told him that if he played nice, she might have a Butterscotch Krimpet with his name on it. He tried to look away, so she just moaned louder with each bite till she'd finished. Then she reached into her bag, making sure to crinkle the plastic wrapper as loudly as possible, and pulled out another.

"I sure wish I knew who this LINC13 was," she said, giving me a knowing smile. She slowly unwrapped the Krimpet and offered the kid a bite. It was all he could do to keep his mouth closed as she rubbed icing from the Tastykake onto his lips. He tried to turn away, but his nostrils were flaring, taking in the scent. Suddenly, like a shark attack, he bit into the Krimpet. Steph came close to losing the tips of her fingers.

She pulled back and waved the other half of the Tastykake in front of him like a carrot. The kid chewed and chewed, not wanting to swallow. He really was hungry, and he didn't seem unfamiliar with the experience. It was hard to tell if he was malnourished with his clothes so baggy, but he was thin. Still, growing boys his age were bottomless pits. They were always hungry.

"Tell us where to find LINC13," Steph coaxed.

"Fine," he said. "Why don't you look for him to be working on a piece down by NJSP on 2nd St." He was referring to a series of walls where the real graffiti artists put up big murals near the New Jersey State Prision. Steph smiled with satisfaction as she fed him the other half of the Krimpet. The kid chewed, then with his mouth full laughed and said, "I hope you find him. I really do. Because if you find him, they'll find you."

I had Steph unlock herself from the cuffs. Then I cuffed him, hands behind his back, picked him up by his upper arm and yanked him along to the SUV. I stuffed him in the back with his cohort, slammed the door shut and signaled Steph to get in. I drove her back to the button factory so she could get her car and follow me back to the station, but when I pulled up next to her car, she didn't get out. She just looked at me with those big blue eyes.

"What?"

"Are you really going to run them in?"

"Uh, yeah," I told her. "I really am. I have a complaint against them for vandalism. I have a witness," I reminded her. I was trying to ignore the threats of law suits and harassment claims coming from the back.

"What if they really were hungry?"

"What do you want me to do? Take them with us to your mothers for dinner?"

"No, but I think maybe they really were hungry."

"Yeah, so hungry they stopped to paint the walls before chowing down. Give me a break!"

"Joe, if you take them in, what will happen to them? Nothing good, right? Can't we help them somehow?"

"Cupcake, I don't even know who these guys are. I have a job to do. I have to uphold the law. If it makes you feel better, I'm not even going to try to press charges for the car-jacking I witnessed since no complaint was filed. But you and I witnessed these juvenile delinquents breaking several laws in the space of an hour. I can't just let that go."

"Well, what if they were able to help you solve the cases you're working on?"

"I don't think they're going to cooperate." I couldn't believe she was really arguing against me on their behalf.

"What if they were witnesses to one of the crimes? It seems possible." Actually, I hadn't thought seriously about that.

"What do you suggest?"

"Let's find out who they are and where they live, and then try to make a deal with them."

"I knew it," I groaned. "Cupcake, these guys don't want to be friends."

Stephanie turned around and looked into the back cargo compartment through the cage barrier that I had installed to keep Bob at bay.

"If we agree to turn you guys loose, you have to tell us your real names and where you live. That's the deal," she said.

"I didn't authorize that deal," I told them.

"Take us in," the black kid said. "We like Juvie. It's better than where we've been living."

"Is that why you ran?" I asked sarcastically.

"Just forgot till now. I wanna go." He started singing tunelessly, "Take me back to Juvie, take me back to Juvie."

I turned out of the drive and took them to the Juvenile Reception and Assessment Center in Bordentown. I called ahead and had the JJC admissions social worker on duty meet us in the parking lot. She looked in the back of the SUV and identified the boys as previous visitors of the system. They were both living in group foster care at a local boys' home. She gave me the address and I drove them there. It was run down, over-run with gang tags and oozing trash and debris from doors and windows.

I walked to the back of the SUV and opened the hatch. I yanked them each to their feet and removed the cuffs. They were stunned, but silent…at last.

"You're not taking us in?" the black boy named Joe asked.

"Not yet," I said, giving him every indication that I might change my mind. "It seems my partner isn't entirely sure she can identify you as being the ones who defaced the button factory break room, but she might recall the details if you don't help me out, Joe," I told him.

"Not Joe, man. Cuppa."

"You go by Cuppa?" Steph asked.

"Sure, like, I'm dark as a Cuppa Joe."

"Ah," she said, looking back to the white boy named Lucas Berne. "Can I just call you Lucas?" she asked.

"Burn," he corrected her.

"Cuppa and Burn," she repeated. "What is LINC13's name?"

Cuppa shifted back and forth looking antsy. Then again, maybe feeling was finally returning to his limbs. "Man, that guy is MS-13. His crew would kill us for stooling on him. They hang in the D Block of the city, man. That's all I'm sayin'."

"What street?" I asked.

"You know what street. I told you enough. Find him yourself." Cuppa turned and walked on up to the door of the home which was hanging wide open.

"Care to add anything?" I asked Burn, not expecting anything helpful.

"You got another goodie for me?" he asked Stephanie.

"You got a name for us?" I asked, stepping between them, blocking his line of sight. From behind me I could hear the crinkle of a Tastykake wrapper. He heard it too, and I could tell his mouth was watering. "Don't lie to me," I warned.

He licked his lips. "Lino Pavia is the tagger. He's one of the best. Does real art pieces. But he's Dimas Varela's boy. Varela is the new leader of the local chapter of MS-13. He's already hardcore, and he's really up and coming because he's got the funding."

"Where's he getting this funding?"

"Word on the street is he's got connections from El Salvador, but he was small time till a few weeks ago. He's come up too fast and he hasn't been to college." That meant he hadn't been in prison, which was a given at his age. He was really too young to be a hardcore leader.

"What's the word on the cop killers? Who's offering the money?"

"If I knew that, I'd be rich," he said, making a gun with his thumb and index finger and pretending to shoot me. Steph smacked his hand away. He snatched his jacket back from her and walked towards Cuppa who was hanging out in the doorway with some other guys. Burn looked back once at Steph and then went inside.

"You really will be the death of me," I groaned. Steph tried to suppress a grimace.

I closed the back of the SUV and walked Steph back to the passenger door, keeping my body between her and the boys on the porch. I was sure they were armed. She got in and I shut the door, then walked around to the driver's side. We took off, but I didn't breathe easy till we were back in the Burg.

_To be continued…_


	13. Chapter 13 Fireworks

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members, created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: I'm sorry there haven't been regular postings lately. My father passed away unexpectedly October 1st. I will post as often as I can, but for a while, please bear with me. I might mention that my dad is the one who was always reading and writing, and he's definitely the one I caught the bug from. I hope to always make him proud with the things I write. Thank you for your kind messages and for your prayers and understanding!

* * *

**Extra special thanks to former gang member, now rapper, RedCloud, for taking the time to talk to me about his experiences and answer a long list of questions, helping me better understand the mindset of the LA gangs. His mission in life is to bring a positive message to the indigenous people of North and South America. Check him out! His latest album is " Hawthorne's Most Wanted" on Syntax Records. He's on tour now with DJ Wise and they put on a great show. Don't be afraid to drop him a line to say 'Hi'. We all need encouragement. **

* * *

I took Steph back to get her car. I had seen the smoke in the distance, and noticed the plume looming larger and larger as we neared the button factory. I got a familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach. This feeling usually required Maloxx.

We pulled into the parking lot at the button factory and quickly verified that it was indeed Stephanie's car that was now a smoldering pile of blackened metal. Two fire trucks were on the scene along with Eddie Gazarra's black and white. When he saw us, Stephanie tried to slide down into her seat, but it was a useless gesture. Eddie was waiving at us, relieved to see the dark curls barely visible over the dash.

As I rolled to a stop, I glimpsed something shiny and black momentarily appear in my side mirror. Ranger. As usual. He slid out of his Porche turbo and walked to Steph's side of the SUV. He tapped on her window with the back of his knuckles and she rolled the window down, clearly annoyed to have been caught at the scene of yet another vehicle demolition.

"Let me guess," he said in his smooth, Spanish-accented voice. "You called Mr. Kleinschmidt for backup and he missed and hit your gas tank?" He was kidding, but letting me know he knew about Mr. Kleinschmidt. He was still keeping tabs on her. Very close tabs.

"No," she said indignantly, trying not to smile.

"Maybe Lula left a bag from Pleasure Treasures in your trunk, and the hot oil overheated and exploded?" he asked, his eyes twinkling a little as he flirted with her.

"No, ew!" she said, stifling a giggle by faking an all over body shiver.

"Then you must have made a new enemy Babe. Who is it this time?" He was totally serious now.

"I don't know," she said. There was a little shock on her face as she registered this fact. She had no doubt been hoping the fire bombing of her car was an accident, even though she knew better from long experience.

Ranger turned to me. "You have an idea?"

I nodded.

Steph turned on me. "I know what you're thinking, and they didn't have time. _We_ just got here."

"I'm sure they have access to a phone."

"Oh, sure," she said, sarcastically. "They just called it in. 'I'd like one car bomb and two large pizza's…delivered'."

"Something like that," Ranger said, backing me up.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, trying to laugh us off.

"Any other suspects?" he asked.

"Loads," she countered.

"Babe," Ranger said, drawing her eyes with his own. "You are on the right track with a crew. I agree with Morelli on this one. You need some backup, some protection…some muscle," he said pointedly.

"Like Tank?"

"Yes, like Tank." Ranger tipped his head and Steph followed his gaze. Kenny Zale and Buckey Moyer had peeled off their protective jackets and were standing around next to one of the fire trucks, their bulging biceps were stretching the arms of their Trenton Fire Department T-shirts.

Ranger opened the door for her, and Steph slid out and walked with him over to talk to Kenny and Buckey. Steph had gone to school with Kenny and had even dated his brother, Mikey, in high school. Bucky's mom, Esther, was friends with Grandma Mazur. So, Steph was probably going to be pretty comfortable bringing them on board. Not that I didn't feel better with a couple firemen on board, but shen was running out of room on her team. I had really wanted Mooch watching her back for me. I wondered if Ranger knew it, too. He seemed pleased with himself.

Ranger didn't bring her back to me. He handed her the keys to his Porsche as Tank pulled up in a big black truck. He kissed Steph goodbye right in front of everyone, including me. That was a first. He didn't look back at me. He just climbed in the passenger side of the truck next to tank and they drove off. I was boiling mad. I wanted to go charging after him, but I was in uniform and it knew if I did it wouldn't be good.

I sat there stewing, waiting for Steph to come back. She knew I was mad, so she just gave me a little wave and took off in the Porsche. She was such a chicken! She thought I needed time to cool off before she wanted to be around me. That was fine. She didn't want to hear what I would have said anyway.

Steph and I still smelled like smoke and burnt rubber when the pizza arrived at 6:45. The guys were already into the game. Steph said she'd called her mom and told her she was having car trouble again. I didn't ask for details.

We were all yelling at the coaches when my doorbell rang again. I peeked out. It was my mother. She didn't look happy. I opened the door and tried to give her a peck on the cheek, but she blew past me, her eyes locked on Stephanie.

"Stephanie Plum!" she said in the scolding mother's voice that was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Steph came up out of her seat, standing at attention, spilling a bowl full of popcorn from her lap onto the floor. "Your mother has been worried sick!" She looked around at the guys. "You lied!" she spat. "You lied to your own mother!" Then she turned her black eyes on me. "And you! My own son! You promised Helen you would be there for dinner tonight. She made a cake especially for you, and you treat her like this?"

I grimaced. We were busted. There was no way out. I opened my mouth to say so, but she waved my words away with her hand.

"Don't bother lying to me too. I know you, Joseph." She pointed a sharp, boney finger at us both. "You'll be repaid by your own children. Mark my words. I only hope I'm there to see it." Steph was horror stricken, as if my mother had just placed a curse on her. "And I'm telling your mother," she said, waiving her finger at the guys and the TV set where the game was still blaring. "I'm telling her about all this," she said.

Steph was white as a sheet and about ready to pass out. Mom stormed out of the house and back down the walk to her car.

"I can't believe your mother is still telling on me!" she wailed, nearly in tears.

I tried to hold her, comfort her, but she angrily pushed me away. She grabbed the keys to the Porche and took off. I knew I had lost my points for the cake again. Mrs. Plum would no doubt deny her own daughter pineapple upside-down cake for the rest of her life for pulling a stunt like this.

And now, on top of everything else, I knew Steph was going to be going all out to bring in Stinky Sanders so she could pay for a new car. I sunk down into my seat, ignoring Bob who was munching on the popcorn she had dropped. The guys were engrossed in the game again, cheering and jeering and arguing with the announcer.

I grabbed my keys and left Ray and Stanley sitting on my couch. I drove to the Elks Lodge. I figured that if there was this much upset at the Plum house, Frank would have sought refuse elsewhere, and this was his home away from home.

Sure enough, Frank was sitting at the bar watching the game. I pulled up a stool next to him and bought him a beer. We drank in silence until the commercials came back on.

"Got your tit in a ringer this time," he said to me.

"Yeah, I know it."

"Can't even feel mine anymore." He took a long drag off his beer.

"I need a favor, Frank." I explained about Stinky Sanders being a dangerous skip and told him that I wanted a tail on Steph. I wanted Mooch to follow her, but he'd be pretty obvious in his paint truck. I thought that Frank and his fellow cabbie, Whitey Blocher, could keep an eye on her. Maybe Frank could even take Mooch with him and make the suggestion that he join her team. Frank agreed.

I went back home. It was nearing the end of the game and Ray and Stanley hadn't even noticed I'd been gone. My pals. I didn't feel too bad about throwing them out as soon as the game ended.

I lay awake that night, having taken my doctor prescribed acid reflux pills - which weren't helping - and thought about how to sweep Stephanie off her feet and win my points back. I pulled out the little jewelry box with the pearl earrings from my underwear drawer and started making mental plans to take her to Marsilio's.

I finally drifted off. I dreamed that Bobby V. was pounding me into the pavement with his fistful of rings, swearing at me for letting Steph burn down his restaurant. Steph was in the background saying, "It wasn't my fault." I woke up in a cold sweat, went to the bathroom, and downed a half bottle of Maloxx. One way or another, she really was going to be the death of me.

_To be continued.._


	14. Chapter 14 Bats in the Belfry

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and the Jacob Stanton, created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

The next morning I stood bleary eyed, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror through the steamy haze and beaded water left from my shower. I was looking older and worn. I hardly recognized myself these days. The grizzle on my face didn't help things any, so I grabbed the can of shaving cream and lathered my beard. Shaving was a ritual I hated but that women loved to watch. It just wasn't any fun without Steph. I really did miss her.

I picked up my razor and tried in vain to locate my old face for the umpteenth time. It still wasn't there. I brushed my teeth, gargled, combed my hair, greased my arm-pits, and put talc on my chest and ribs where my vest was rubbing. This was as good as it was going to get. I got dressed in civilian clothes and looked into the full length mirror on the inside of my closet door. I didn't look like the Morelli that had sweet talked Stephanie out of her virginity. I didn't even look like the Morelli that had fallen in love with her fourteen years later. And I sure as hell felt a lot more than two years older than her.

I went outside to bring Bob in. I'd left him on his chain and he was disturbing the peace by barking at the neighbor cat who'd given him nose-stripes twice before. He wasn't very bright sometimes, but he loved a good scrap.

I was pouring my coffee and sticking bread in the toaster when my cell phone rang. It was Frank.

"She's on the move," he said.

"It's early," I said doubtfully.

"Tell me about it," Frank yawned. In my mind, I could see him sitting in his cab with a coffee in one hand and an apple Danish in the other.

He put me on speaker phone and called out the streets so I could mentally follow the pursuit while I ate my breakfast at the kitchen table. Bob was bounding around, begging for bites off my toast. I tossed him a whole piece with butter.

"We're at the park," he said. "She getting out. She's wearing sweats. Cripes!" he said disgustedly. "I think she's jogging."

"Are you following the right car?" I asked. Stephanie doesn't jog. She would take her car to the end of my driveway to pick up the mail.

"Shiny black Porsche, curly dark hair…Oh, geez. She just tripped. Yep, that's our girl," he confirmed.

"Must be," I sighed.

"And here comes trouble," Frank said with an alarmed little whistle.

"Ranger?"

"Can't be anyone else in that getup," he agreed.

"What are they doing?" I asked, closing my eyes, bracing myself for anything.

"I told you, they're jogging. Well, he's jogging, anyway. She's not doing so hot."

"I have to head in to the station," I told him. "Keep me informed."

"Okay, Joe." And he hung up. There was no, 'be careful' or 'watch yourself out there' sentimentality from Frank. I liked that about him. Communication was kept short, simple, and easy to understand.

Unfortunately, his daughter took after her Grandma Mazur on her mother's side. This made Stephanie incurably curious, nosy, hard headed, and stubborn. These traits might seem to make her predictable, but she was also wily and clever and always in denial, and that introduced the element of surprise. I guess it was the mystery of her that was so alluring. And she never tried to be perfect or to impress. She was just herself. I think she got that from Frank, along with her rather violent temper. Any way you sliced it, life plus Stephanie Plum _was_ an adventure.

I arrived at the station and sat through the morning briefing. One of the rookies named Barna was serving a warrant on a repeat offender, Emanuel Lowe, for unpaid parking tickets. This guy always parked in a tow away zone in front of his building. His defense was that he was a tax payer and as such, we worked for him and we couldn't tell him what to do. In some small way I had to agree with him. Chasing this guy down for parking in front of his own house was the real waste of our tax dollars. However, our tax dollars _were_ at work all those other times we responded because was drunk and was causing disturbances or was found to be DUI.

I decided to do my duty and get it out of the way. I followed the rookie into the Burg and watched as he walked towards the door of the house to serve the warrant. I laid on the horn of my SUV long and loud, scaring him a little. He put his hand on his gun and looked around. He hadn't been surveying the scene and hadn't spotted me tailing him. He finally saw me, hit his palm against his forehead – the universal sign for "duh". He looked around to be sure no one else was lurking cars or hiding behind bushes.

I continued to watch as he rang the doorbell, presented the warrant, and had the door slammed in his face. He looked to me, and I nodded encouragement, signaling for him to go ahead and bring him in. He knocked with his flashlight, hand on his gun, standing off to the side of the door. He made his announcements, kicked the door in, and went in. Lowe was never actually armed, at least not in my experiences with him, so I wasn't worried. At least, I wasn't worried about Lowe.

The rookie pulled Lowe out of the house in his orange and green striped pajamas, over which he was thankfully wearing a blue bath robe and slippers. Barna put him in the back of his car, ignoring the cursing.

It had all happened too quickly. He hadn't had time to read Lowe his rights. I called to him over the radio to remind him and he proceeded to Mirandize his detainee. He then secured the house and pulled away from the curb, heading back to the station.

I was debating between doing my job and calling Frank. I had made no progress yet on my cases, and time was ticking. I decided I had to work, but then thought maybe Mooch would want to ride with me. Then, if we happened to be called to bail Steph out of trouble later on, he could jump on board with her. It would give away my hand, but I was almost out of time.

I picked up Mooch and proceeded to follow up on the only lead I had – Joe and Lucas, aka Cuppa and Burn.

Now, I didn't have proof these boys had burned up Steph's car. I would never be able to prove it. We didn't even show them as owning cell phones. If I saw them carrying phones, I decided I would try to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they had prepaid cell phones from Walmart. Steph was right, I needed this lead.

I pulled up to the boys' home. I called in the address to the station and was told it was called Mt. Cooper's Home for Boys. Mt. Cooper's was state funded, but just barely. Mooch and I approached a pack of about ten boys ages 10 to 18, who were hanging out on the porch. It was a brisk fall morning, so they were all wearing jackets, any of which could have been concealing a gun. I was plain-clothes today and had my badge-on-a-rope tucked into my shirt. I asked the boy who looked the oldest to get me the care giver in charge. That got me a laugh.

"You mean the House Monster," he corrected, and he disappeared inside. I wasn't sure from his attitude if he was going to get me the guy or not. But I waited anxiously, glad that Mooch didn't look anything like a cop. I was glad he'd come with me.

A tall, thin white man finally appeared in the door. He had military tattoos on one arm and a collection of rather intimidating tattoos on the other as far up as I could see. He had the gaunt look of a user and his eyes were a little wild. He was already medicated this early in the morning. Not a good sign.

"Whaddyawant?" he said, his words slurred.

"We want to talk to you about some gang related activity that may be going on at this house," I told him.

"You a cop?" he asked, looking Mooch up and down and then looking back to me.

"Homicide Detective," I said, hoping that didn't sound quite so cop-like.

"Show me," he dared me, an evil smile creeping across his face. He knew something about the cop killings, although it may only have been what was in the papers. Either way he looked happy about it. I pulled out my shield and flashed it to him. "Where's yours?" he asked Mooch.

"I'm a house painter," Mooch told him.

The House Monster laughed out loud. "Well, thank God the cops finally sent us someone we can use. Did you bring your own paint?"

"We're not here to paint," Mooch said, taking a step forward, trying to intimidate the guy. "We're here to talk to Joe and Lucas. They are wanted for questioning."

"Really?" he said amused. "Well, you'll need a warrant." He crossed his arms and stood in the doorway, barring us from entering.

"If you really want to go that route, we can" I told him. "But, I think, given the state of disrepair evidenced by the photographs I took when I dropped the kids off the other day, I think a full investigation of your handling of this property is in order."

"Bastard," he spat. "You think you can bully me?"

"I only want to question the boys," I assured him.

"What the hell makes you think they'll tell you anything, ya greasy oinker?" He caughed up a lugie and spat it over the railing into the dirt. "You gonna blackmail them too?"

"Are you going to let me speak to them or not?" I asked, not engaging in this conversation any further.

"No. Go get your warrant." He ushered the other boys back into the house and slammed the door.

"That went well," Mooch said sarcastically.

"Get in the car, right now," I urged him, and we took off. I could feel an imaginary bullseye emblazoned on my chest.

I called the station as we pulled away and got Bell. The ballistics weren't back yet. Big surprise. I asked him if he would run a background check on the House Monster for me, explaining it was a lead to a lead, and he agreed.

I called Frank to see what was up.

"I had to make a run, so Whitey picked her up at Vinnie's." He meant the bonds office. "Then she went with the big black chick to Crazy Carl's. They were there about 20 minutes and came out with something in a black trash bag. I picked them back up and Whitey took a call.

"They drove to McDonald's and wasted half an hour. Then they met up with two big guys wearing black windbreakers that said 'Security' in big yellow letters on the back. I thought maybe they were Ranger's guys until I saw them. They were white guys and they didn't act all military like Ranger's guys. And their boots didn't match."

"Good eye," I told him. "Think it could be Kenny Zale and Bucky Moyer?"

"The firemen? Hey, yeah, now that you mention it, I think so. Yeah. I thought that Bucky Moyer looked familiar."

"Esther's son," I said, helping him along. "And the big black chick is Lula," I said, suggesting maybe he should learn some manners and make use of people's proper names, but Frank was the Archie Bunker type and he didn't too kindly to the hint.

"That's right. Okay, well anyway, Steph got out, right, and took the black trash bag up to the door. _Lula_," he said with emphasis, "and one of the guys, must've been Bucky, went around to the back. Steph and Kenny waited on the sides of the house, out of sight. Steph had her gun in her hand and Kenny had a big fire extinguisher. Those two had put dust masks on their faces. When everyone was in place, Steph ran up and knocked really loud with the butt of her gun, then ran back to the side of the house."

"What was the address?" I asked, interrupting the story.

"It was 2115 Barnes," he said. "I wrote it down."

"Lonnie Dodd," I said, breathing a sigh of relief that it wasn't Stinky Sanders she'd been after. I had forgotten all about her tiff with Ranger over Lonnie Dodd. "Then what?"

"This guy opened the door, looked down and saw a little stuffed bat sitting on his porch with it's wings outstretched. He looked for a few seconds, and then all of a sudden fire shot out the tail and that sucker shot into his house and was crashing and banging all around. He left the door open and ran after it. It set the curtains on fire first, and then the couch. I know because I could hear the yelling from a block away. Steph ran in first and Kenny was right behind her. He was spraying the fire extinguisher and the dust was blowing out the front door. When the dust settled," he said, laughing at his own pun, "Steph and Kenny dragged him out in cuffs and shackles. The guy was a little singed but not hurt. She called for Lula and Buckey and they loaded him up in the guys' van and then Steph and Lula followed them down to the station house."

"Pretty impressive," I admitted. Ranger was right. She was getting better.

"I thought so," Frank agreed. "Messy, but then she always was."

"Yeah," I agreed with a smile. "That's our girl."

"I have to take another call, but I'm sure you can catch up to her at Vinnie's. No doubt she'll want to be getting paid."

"No doubt. Thanks, Frank."

"Let me know when it's my turn again. I'm heading home for a nap," he said, and hung up.

Mooch and I drove to the bond's office. We arrived just before Steph and Lula. Ranger was already inside. He was driving his big black truck, and there was someone sitting in the passenger seat, waiting. I saw him looking back at us in the side mirror. His head was shaved military style, so I just passed him off as being one of Ranger's goons.

I approached Steph, and got the cold shoulder. "Hey, we need to talk," I said, blocking her way. Lula held up her hands, saying she didn't want to be involved. I let her pass me and she went inside. Steph tried to side step me, but I stepped in time and blocked her again. I was about to reach out and pin her arms to her sides, just in case she got slap-happy, when I heard a gun slide click behind me. Someone had just chambered a round in a semi-auto. I froze, and felt the barrel pressing into my kidney. I looked at Steph and she didn't seem concerned. I hadn't heard Ranger return, and I didn't think Ranger would pull a gun on me, so I guessed it was the goon from the truck.

"I think the lady doesn't want to talk to you today, Morelli." The deep rasping voice belonged to a white guy from Jersey. I turned slowly to see who it was. It was Shorty O. He was the owner of a seedy dive and known to be middle management and very influential on the shady side of Trenton. What was he doing in public with Ranger?

"Thanks, Shorty." Steph smiled and gave me a little finger waive as she skirted me and went inside. How the hell did she know Shorty? From Ranger, obviously. He was a bad influence on her. I wondered what else he was exposing her to. I felt my face contorting into something way beyond a scowl.

"You better get that gun out of my back," I warned him. "Don't think you're above the law just because you're riding around with Zorro." I was really angry now.

"Let's just call this a friendly disagreement, eh?" Shorty unloaded the round he'd chambered and slipped the gun back in his holster. He was carrying a 9mm exposed. And he certainly wasn't intimidated by me. He should have been. I was really having to restrain myself from shooting him.

I looked through the plate glass window. Everyone was looking away, but I knew they had been watching up until two seconds ago. Ranger was laughing and had an arm around Steph. Lula was recounting the take down. Even though Steph still had fire extinguisher powder all over her, she was beaming. She had brought down Lonnie Dodd with her new team, and Ranger was proud of her. She wasn't eager to tell me about it, though. She didn't know what to expect from me, but she anticipated it would involve yelling and arm waiving on my part.

What had I done that was so bad she couldn't share this moment with me? Oh yeah. Now I remembered. She was still angry with be because I got her in trouble with her mother and probably lost her rights to pineapple upside-down cake.

I was burning with jealousy, I was humiliated and angry, and I wasn't getting anywhere on my case. Work was in the toilet, my love life was in the toilet. Even my mother was mad at me. Only Frank understood me these days and he was taking a nap.

I still had Mooch with me. We got back in my SUV and I drove him back to the house he was supposed to be painting. Then I headed back to my office. I wanted to start by reviewing the information Bell had scraped up on the House Monster. I had a feeling that cracking that nut was only going to be the start of this investigation.

_To be continued..._


	15. Chapter 15 The House Moochster

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Early the next morning, Mooch came knocking at my kitchen door.

"I couldn't hardly sleep last night," he said, grabbing a mug and helping himself to coffee and toast. "Did you see the looks on those kid's faces?" I nodded, mostly just humoring him. We obviously weren't coming from the same place on this. "I just keep seeing them," he said.

"Seeing what, exactly?" He was clearly relating to these kids on some level, and I wasn't sure it was an accurate interpretation of the situation. Mooch and I grew up running around on the streets and had seen a lot, but scenes like that had never fazed him before.

"You know, that look they had."

"What, because I'm a cop? They always look at me like that." Having teenagers look at me like they wanted to kill me was nothing new. Having them actually try to do it was, however, was. Either way, they didn't have my sympathies this morning.

"No, not just that. They've got this look that says they know that no one cares. The State and that House Monster is all that's keeping a roof over their heads right now, and he doesn't even like them. I mean, think about it. Why are they acting like this? These kids have had people make them promises and then walk away their entire lives. They won't believe anything anyone says to them. They won't trust anyone. They can't. And the sad thing is, they're right. That's learning from experience. You can't tell those kids they're wrong, because in their experience, they're not wrong. They're right and you're just another liar who is going to walk away at some point to pursue your own goals instead of theirs."

"I'm not sure they have any worthwhile goals to be worried about." I thought about that for a few minutes while I sipped my coffee. We sat in a depressed silence. Even Bob laid down under the table and was quiet.

"I keep thinking that they don't have dads, just like we didn't have dads," Mooch said softly, still deep in thought.

"What are you talking about? We both had dads," I said, giving him a concerned look.

"Well, yeah, in that we knew our dads, but that didn't make them real father figures. Did your dad teach you to throw a ball or take you out for ice cream?"

"Sometimes," I argued.

"More times than you can count with your fingers?" he asked, eyebrows raised doubtfully.

"No," I admitted. "Probably not."

"They didn't teach us to shave or drive or sit us dwn for the birds and bees talk."

"Well, that's a matter or opinion," I said, grinning, referring to all the dirty magazines we'd perused in the garage and the fact that the first car we'd ever stolen was my dad's.

"Don't get me started," he laughed. He knew what I was talking about. He loved that story.

Mooch and I had been taking my dad's car at night after he passed out. That's how we learned to drive. Thank God cars were built to last and enamel paint was easy to buff out.

One night, I had a very hot date with Terry Gilman. I asked dad, after he was sufficiently liquored up, if I could borrow the car. He said no, so waited an hour and tried again. The answer was still no plus a backhand to boot. So, I diplomatically dropped one of Mom's tranquilizers into his glass and went to my room. A little later, I heard the TV shut off. He was going to bed. I waited about fifteen minutes. With time running out, I grabbed the spare keys I'd had made, crept downstairs, out the door, got into the car, and pushed it to the end of the block before starting it. I cruised over to Terry's, and we drove straight to the look-out to park.

We were "parking" hot and heavy and making plenty of noise when the old man suddenly popped up from the back seat demanding that someone turn the TV off and get to bed. That's when he looked down and saw me, or at least the familiar sight of my bare backside. He did what he always did when he saw it. The belt came off and the chase was on. Terry still had enough clothes on to run to another car. I never did find out who took her home. I was too busy streaking past half the football team and cheerleading squad to notice, with my old man in hot pursuit.

"So, what are you saying?" I asked Mooch.

"Well, I think those boys are too afraid to invest themselves in anything. They have never been encouraged. They are told, have seen, and believe that anything good they have will be taken away and anything they try to accomplish they will fail at."

"I'd agree with that," I told him.

"That House Monster is a nightmare, but the kids have no hope. They're probably afraid the next guy will be even worse."

"What do you want me to do about it?" I groaned.

"There's nothing you can do. You're a cop. They will never trust you. Not in a million years."

"So, what then?"

"I was thinking maybe I could be the new House Monster."

I choked on my toast.

"Seriously. I'm divorced now. I don't need much. I only have one room and toilet now. It's not like I'd be giving up the glamorous life. And, you know, I don't think you and I turned out so bad. Maybe I could be a good House Monster."

"What about joining Stephanie's team?"

"She doesn't need me. And you're going to have to learn to trust her sometime." I groaned.

"So, what? You're really wanting to do this?" He nodded. "When?"

"Now. Effective immediatly." That's Mooch. He jumps with both feet and usually without looking. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn't on Steph's team, come to think of it.

"I think you're taking this way too lightly. Besides, you have no experience with kids. You haven't had any college at all. Most of the time the State requires some psychology or educational background. You have no qualifications."

"That's for being so supportive," he sniped.

"I'm trying to bring you back down to reality. I'm not saying you can't do it. I just don't think you can walk in and take over."

"Well, you know, maybe we have connections." He ws looking hopefully at me.

"I'm a cop, not an administrative social worker," I frowned.

"Well, you could ask around, you know. Pull a few strings for me. Maybe I could do the work temporary while I get the qualifications. Besides, that House Monster we met yesterday doesn't look qualified to pick up the city garbage. How the hell did he get the job?"

"I looked into that. He's a Vietnam Vet, he's had four years of college paid for mostly by the GI Bill. He has three grown children from his only marriage. He's a widower. His wife's death was ruled a suicide."

"I can see why. He's a…a…" Mooch couldn't seem to find a word he liked.

"Well, it's the chicken and the egg on that one. I have no idea which event contributed to which. Maybe he's always been a jerk. Maybe he became a heavily sedated jerk after she passed. Who knows."

"If I can't get the job, you are going to do everything in your power to get him out of there, right?"

"I can take him in for a crime, but he'll be right back out unless the crime is serious enough for him to be held without bail. If he gets out, he might take his anger out on the kids. I don't want that on my conscience."

"So, if you can't get him on a major charge, you won't touch him?"

"I won't. It's not in the best interest of those boys."

Mooch just shook his head at me. "I hear you, but I just can't believe there's nothing we can do."

"I didn't say there was nothing we could do." I grabbed my cell and dialed Steph.

"Hello?" she answered, groggy. She had been asleep.

"Sorry to wake you, Cupcake, but Mooch has a serious problem and he needs your help."

"What for?"

"I'll let him tell you." I handed the phone to Mooch, who gave me a surprised look. He explained about the boys' home and his decision to do something about it. Then he passed the phone back to me.

"What exactly is it you want me to do?" she asked. I knew that since she had a soft spot for Cuppa and Burn, she was already on board.

"I don't know exactly. I can't take down the House Monster, Jacob Stanton, without a major charge. I need surveillance, but most of all, Cupcake, I need hard evidence properly attained. I know that isn't your specialty, but that's what I have to have if I am going to get this guy prosecuted and put away. Otherwise he'll be right back in there and he'll be an even bigger problem."

"Okay. I'm with Sally today. We'll try to catch Cuppa and Burn on their way to school today. Maybe we can talk to them and see if they'd be willing to dish on Stanton. I'll look for an angle and get back to you."

"Okay. Be very, very careful," I pleaded.

"I will," she assured me, sounding a little stressed that I was stressed.

"I have something else for you," I said. "I did some research and made some calls yesterday on Stinky Sanders. It seems Sanders and Lionel Boone used to be equal competitors, but that has changed. Sanders has come under the informal jurisdiction of Boone. They both work with Jamal Alou, the underground's gunsmith of choice. Maybe you can send one of your boys in to try to get a custom job from Alou, and that might give you a lead to locating Sanders."

I heard silence on the other end and wondered for a moment if she'd fallen back to sleep.

"Steph?"

"I heard you. I can't believe you are giving me this."

"I know you. You're going after him anyway. I just want you to keep me in the loop, okay?"

"Yeah," she said, still stunned. "Okay."

"These guys are Ranger level. Do you understand? You don't have to do this, Cupcake. You don't have anything to prove to anyone."

She paused. "I have to do it for me, Joe."

I knew better than to argue with her. She always met my resistance with more resistance.

"I love you, Cupcake. I just want you to be safe."

"I know. I'll be careful, and thanks."

She hung up without an 'I love you'. I had been holding my breath, hoping for one. She wasn't simmering anymore, but I wasn't completely forgiven yet.

Mooch left and I finished getting ready for work. I opened the back door, locking it behind me, and looked up into the hazy, gray sky. It was going to be a very long day.

_To be continued..._

_Please Review. Let me know you're out there. You guys are so quiet this time around:P_


	16. Chapter 16 Steph's POV New Attitude

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**STEPH'S POV**

I hung up the phone, and crawled out of bed. Morelli's words were still ringing in my ears, particularly the words, "I love you, Cupcake". My heart ached when he said that, and it was all I could do not to say it back. If I did, it might make things more complicated, and I didn't need that. I was confused enough.

I climbed into the shower and tried to "wash that man right out of my hair", but I'm no Ella Fitzgerald. I got out, toweled off, styled my hair with gel and the blow-dryer with moderate success, and got dressed in my usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt.

I went to the kitchen and said good morning to Rex. He stuck his little hamster nose out of his soup can when he heard the familiar crinkle of the plastic inside the Frosted Flakes box. I dropped a few flakes in his cage along with a grape, and he twitched his whiskers happily. He was easy to please. Unfortunately, I had the feeling that I had already experienced the highlight of my day, and it wasn't even 7:30 a.m. yet.

I locked up and took the stairs. I drove the Porsche down Hamilton to Chambers, keeping an eye out for Cuppa Joe and Lucas Berne. I was drawing attention in the Porsche, dragging the streets around Trenton Central High. I drove the most likely route between the school and the boys' home, but I didn't see them. After an hour, I gave up the search.

Then I called Bernie Kuntz.

"Hey, Steph," he answered. "What's going on?"

"I need some help," I said. "I need to make contact with Jamal Alou."

"No way! Not me!" he said in a near panic.

"Relax. I wasn't asking you. But I do need to set up some kind of surveillance on him once we get close enough. Stinky Sanders has gone underground and Alou may end up being my only lead. I really need to bring Sanders in. I can't tell you how important it is to me that we get him."

"Is this business or personal?"

"Both," I told him.

"Okay. So, who's going in?"

"I was thinking maybe Dillon Ruddick, my building super, would do it. He's got reason to be armed working in that apartment building. He has no history working with me. And he's trustworthy."

"And I take it he's handy-man enough to install a listening device or a tracking system if I show him how, is that it?"

"Do you think we can? And for how much?"

"Well, the appliance store doesn't sell that kind of thing, but let's just say electronics are in my blood. I could whip up a custom job in a few hours, but I need to know exactly what you need and for how long, how much room I'll have to work with, and where we are planning to put it. I think we'll have to send Dillon in on his own the first time, have him look around and see where we could put a device and then send it with him when he picks up the finished product."

"I hate the idea of sending him after Alou without a wire."

"I hate the idea of sending him in and getting him caught _with_ a wire," Bernie said. "He's less likely to be caught after he's paid cash for a custom piece. Speaking of which, do you have money to pay Alou?"

"I just got paid for bringing in an FTA. It wasn't enough to buy a car, but it may be just enough to satisfy Alou to modify a gun we already own. I'll talk to Dillon and see if he'll do it. I still have to find out how to make contact."

"Be careful." Bernie said.

"See you soon," I said, and I disconnected.

I stopped by Pino's and found Richie doing inventory. I asked him if he knew how we could find Jamal Alou. I could have asked Ranger. He would know. But I wanted to find him on my own, with my own team.

"Word has it he's been doing some work for a couple guys down on Stark. They've been holding court at Blue Fish," he said.

"Do you know who the other guys are?" I asked.

"One is named Dish, and the other is named Ruzick."

"Those guys have been on Ranger's FTA list before," I said, holding back a shiver.

"No doubt. There's nothing good going down on Stark, and we both know it."

Everyone knew it. And here I was, heading back to the most dangerous street in the city, on purpose. No wonder everyone thought I was nuts. And Joe was letting me go through with it this time. I shoved that thought to the back of my mind.

I bought a six pack of beer for Dillon. I thought I had better butter him up for this assignment. I got two meat-ball subs and went back to my apartment building.

I knocked on Dillon's door and he answered on the twelfth knock. He looked like he'd been sleeping in the recliner watching ESPN. The pattern of the recliner fabric was pressed deeply into the side of his face. He was in his socks and boxers and had potato chip crumbs stuck to the front of his T-shirt. Empty beer cans were littering the end table. He eyed the six-pack I had in my hand, and opened the door wide.

"Hey," I said.

"Come on in," he said, waiving his hand in welcome as he stepped back to admit me. "_Mi casa_ and all that."

"Thanks." I came inside and he closed the door.

"Is this a social call? No, it can't be," he suddenly decided. "You bribing me this early in the morning can only mean that you want something. So, what is it this time?"

Before I could begin, Dillon's phone rang. He let the answering machine pick it up. My next door neighbor, Mrs. Karwatt, left a message that her kitchen sink was clogged again.

Dillon rolled his eyes. "I swear she does that on purpose."

"She's just lonely," I said.

"In this building? How can anyone be lonely? I can't get them to leave me alone." I grimaced. "Oh, now, I didn't mean you. You're our local celebrity." He gave me a winning smile, but I was grimacing again. I hated being in the paper for every bungled job, especially when the story was accompanied by a photo of me rolling in garbage.

Dillon lounged back in the recliner and I sat on the couch. I explained to him about Stinky Sanders, Jamal Alou, and Blue Fish. He listened intently, chewing on his lower lip as he mulled things over.

"We'll need a gun," he said.

"Don't you have one?" I asked, surprised.

"Not anymore," he said. "Don't ask." This time he grimaced. "What about yours?"

"I can't give you my gun. I might need it," I said, remembering all those times Ranger had been on my case to carry my gun and keep it loaded. He'd have a fit if he found out I'd let Dillon give my only gun to Alou. "Maybe we can borrow Mrs. Karwatt's .45," I suggested.

"Fine, you ask her. I'm not," he said, shaking his head vigorously. "Besides, what customization are you going to ask for?"

"Hmmm, I don't know. He wouldn't be impressed if you asked him to put night sights or a scope on it, huh?"

"Not likely," he agreed, trying not to laugh.

"I don't know that much about guns," I told him, feeling ashamed of myself. I wasn't learning half of what I needed to know to do my job, I suddenly realized. Ranger and Joe were right. I was naive. But I was resourceful.

"Dillon, do you have a list of the phone numbers of the apartment residents?" He nodded, reached over by the phone and pulled out a phone list that had been doodled on and modified hundreds of times. I pulled out my cell phone and started loading up numbers. I was not going to lose this cell phone, I told myself. Yeah, right.

When I was done, I called Mr. Kleinschmidt.

"I need some information," I told him. "I need to have a gun modified, but I don't know what to ask for, and I don't want to sound like an idiot. Can you help me?"

"Sure. What kind of gun are we talking about?"

I scrambled mentally, and before my mind had kicked into gear, my mouth had spit out the first thing that it came across. "My Grandma Mazur's .45 long barrel."

"I see. Well, what's the problem?"

"Uh, gee. She didn't say."

"Is it hard to load? Does she pinch her finger when she pulls the trigger? Is it too hard for her to pull the hammer back? Are the sights off?"

"Yeah, all of that," I said, breathing a sigh of relief. Finally, I was getting somewhere.

"Okay, write this down," he said. I grabbed a pen and paper from Dillon's counter. "You need the action tuned, the trigger face smoothed and rounded, the cylinder release beveled, the chambers chamfered, and the sight adjusted." He had to spell most of that for me. He told me some other things I didn't understand and didn't bother to write down. I had enough. That was my way. Get just what I need, and to hell with the rest. That's probably why I graduated in the top 98 of my college class.

I got off the phone and relayed the information to Dillon. Then I set off to talk Grandma Mazur out of her gun.

I pulled up to my parent's house and went inside. I was just in time for lunch, and the lasagna smelled wonderful. It may have been leftovers, but it was the first time I'd had it that week. Dad was out driving the cab, so it was just me and Mom and Grandma. As we ate, I explained to Grandma why I needed her .45 long barrel.

"Well, it's not my gun, you know. It's Essie's. I don't know if we should go messing with it," she said.

"Where did you say Essie got it?" I asked, not clearly recalling.

"She picked it up from a yard sale in Washington, D.C."

"Oh yeah." So, it wasn't even registered. That might be a good thing, just in case Alou was able to check on that kind of thing. We'd be his kind of people. "Well, look at it this way. We'd be improving the gun's efficiency, and she wouldn't even have to pay for it. It's like you'd be doing her a favor," I pressed.

"You really think so?"

"Sure. Absolutely." I gave her my positive, can-do voice. "So, what do you say? Can I borrow it?"

"I don't trust just anyone with my gun," Grandma said. "I want to meet this Alou character myself. Then I'll decide if he's qualified to do the work on it."

"Oh, no you're not!" my Mother shouted in alarm. "Stephanie, you will not take your Grandmother into Blue Fish, or anywhere on Stark Street. Do you understand me?"

Grandma jumped up from the table and shook her finger at my mother. "Don't you tell me where I can and can't go, Helen. I'm your mother, remember? Not the other way around!"

Mom and I were flabbergasted. Grandma Mazur was usually so easy going. This was uncharacteristic of her, to say the least. Her newfound freedom with Crazy Carl Coglin was going to her head.

"You can use my gun when I say you can use my gun," she told me. "And that means I am going with you."

"Oh my God," my mother said, downing the rest of her wine. Then she turned on me. "I know that it doesn't matter what I say. The two of you are determined to drive me crazy. But I will hold you responsible, Stephanie. You understand?"

I nodded, Grandma smiled over her little victory, and my mother made the sign of the cross and began clearing the table. I had no doubt every stitch of clothing in the wash was about to be ironed to within an inch of its life.

I said goodbye to Grandma and headed over to Kuntz Appliances. I explained to Bernie that I wanted a backup of the phone numbers I had entered into my cell phone. He dug around for a connector that allowed him to download my cell phone info into his laptop computer for safekeeping. The next time I lost my phone, Bernie could upload the numbers onto the new chip for me. Now, I was getting somewhere. I was feeling more and more like a mini-Ranger.

Bernie had quite a computer and electronics set up in the back shop of the store. He did all kinds of repairs on electronics. He also had a wireless Internet set up. And I knew he was book smart.

"Bernie," I said. "It has come to my attention recently that I'm not as well versed in being a bounty hunter as I should be. I don't know the cons people pull out on the street. I don't know enough to identify different kinds of gun and ammunition. I don't know makes and models of cars as well as I should. How can I get better without asking Ranger or Joe for help?"

"All that kind of information is available on the Internet," he said, pulling a chair up for me. He started surfing the net, and within minutes had me linked up to sites that explained all the different cons and the history of grifting. I could read about guns and ammo way past my ability to take in information. And I found there were even sights that helped you recognize cars by the headlights at night. It was crazy!

I read an article explaining that "men who are fanatical about cars identify vehicles using the same brain circuitry used to recognize faces". That explained a lot, I thought. I knew what men were really looking at when they were supposedly looking at a woman's face. It suddenly made sense to me why men referred to boobs as headlights...they had no problems recognizing those.

I perused these websites for a few hours until my cell phone rang. It was Morelli.

"Hey, Cupcake. How's your day going?"

"Fine," I told him. "Just doing a little research. How's yours going?"

"I thought maybe I would tell you over dinner."

"Dinner?"

"I'd like to take you to Marsilio's tonight. You know, to make up for missing dinner the other night."

I was silent, trying to decide if I was still mad or not. Truthfully, my mother was over it. But I wasn't.

"Please, Steph. I really am sorry, and I want to see you."

"You mean, it's been a few days and you want to 'make up'," I said, still a little huffy.

"I wouldn't mind 'making up', but that isn't the reason I'm asking. You can meet me if you want." I noticed he didn't refer to the fact that I was still driving Ranger's car. That was good. And I loved going to Marsilio's. It would be wrong to pass up dinner on Morelli at a place like that.

"Okay," I said. "What time? Did you get a reservation?" We would never get in without a Reservation.

"Yeah. Seven."

"I'll meet you there," I said, disconnecting.

Finally, it seemed like things were going my way.

_To be continued..._


	17. Chapter 17 Marsilio's

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

I was waiting at Marsilio's when Bobby V. escorted Steph to the table. She was all dressed up. I got a little light headed with the realization that she'd done her hair and picked out that dress just for me. I thought for a second that maybe I should stand while she was being seated, like a gentleman, but then I thought that would probably be not only corny but misleading. I wasn't a gentleman. We'd never had that kind of relationship. We were more like best friends. We were pizza and beer. Our relationship was more natural and it wasn't like we were dating, exactly.

She looked beautiful with her hair up, little curls falling around her forehead and a few long strands strategically placed. She was wearing the little black dress I liked so much, but thankfully it was somewhat covered by a thin black wrap she had draped around her back and over her arms. She was wearing lots of mascara. Good, I thought. I still made her nervous. Red lipstick. That was a good sign.

I smiled and she smiled shyly back.

"You're beautiful," I told her. She knew it. I didn't really have to say it, but women like it when you say it.

"You're not looking so bad yourself," she said, admiring my maroon sweater and black slacks. I had waited till she got there so I could push the sleeves up my arms. She watched, holding her breath. I knew she liked that. Then she looked down at my tennis shoes and rolled her eyes.

"What?" I said defensively. "They're black, they're new, and they're still clean."

"Be still my heart," she said flatly, not impressed as she flipped open her menu. I don't know why, she always got the same thing – Fettuccini Alfredo with Sausage.

We placed our order. I got the same. We let the house pick the wine.

"So, how's work?" she asked, reminding me with her eyes that I had hinted that I might share something interesting with her if she met me here.

"It's been uneventful. Ballistics came back. No matches. Maybe next time." She wrinkled her nose at me. Not a pleasant thought, to be sure. "Other than that, I've been babysitting and looking for LINC13, but I'm not making any progress," I told her. "How about you?"

"I'm going to send Dillon into Blue Fish to make contact with Jamal Alou later tonight," she said as casually as if she were discussing the weather. "You want to tag along?"

"What's the catch?" I could sense there was a reason she wanted me there. She was playing it way too cool.

"Grandma Mazur is going in too." She waited a second to gauge my reaction before she continued. "It's her gun we're using and she wants in on the action. I couldn't say no."

I suddenly had a headache. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, hard. "Let me get this straight. Your plan is to send a building supervisor and your grandmother to Blue Fish with her _unregistered_ .45 long barrel and ask Jamal Alou where Stinky Sanders is?"

"Well, no. That would just be stupid," she said, opening her napkin onto her lap as the food arrived. "They're going to hire him to modify her gun. They'll tell him they need the action turned, the trigger face smoothed and rounded, the cylinder release beveled, the chambers chamfered, and the sight adjusted," she said proudly, clearly having memorized this list before hand.

"I think you mean you need the action _tuned_," I corrected.

"That's what I said."

"No, it's not."

"I'm not going to argue with you. The food is getting cold," she said, digging in with gusto.

"Yeah, well, he's not going to tell them where Sanders is."

"I know," she answered between bites. "That's why Bernie is going to make me a transmitter for Dillon to place on or near Alou when they pick up the gun."

"Oh, now it all makes sense," I said sarcastically.

"Stop making fun of me," she hissed.

"I'm not," I hissed back.

"Yes, you are."

"This is not a good plan, Cupcake."

She didn't answer. We ate in silence, not speaking another word until we ordered dessert.

When the waiter left, I stood and moved my chair around to the side of the table. Sitting next to her, facing her, I took her hand.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Look, I asked you here because I wanted to apologize for the other night. I should have told the guys to get lost, and I'm sorry I didn't keep my word to you and your mother. I was a jerk."

She nodded, but smiled a little.

"I love you," I said, stroking her cheek softly and looking into her cool blue eyes. "Who else can I talk to? Who knows me like you do? You're just so beautiful and caring and tough and soft, all at the same time. I just don't know what to do with you." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little jewelry box. "I know you sacrificed a lot to make it in this business, and that's what brought you back to me. I wanted to give you something back that you lost. It's just my way of saying that I don't take you for granted."

She took the box from my hand, tears in her eyes, and slowly opened it.

"I found these at Emilio's and thought you might want them back."

I searched her face and eyes and didn't see joy, or gratitude. It was looking a little more like disappointment that was slowly sliding into horror.

"Oh, God…" I ran my hand over my face as I realized that she must have thought it was a ring. She thought I was proposing. I was such an idiot!

"You're giving me Dickie's earrings?" she choked.

"Excuse me, what?" I stopped breathing and listened hard.

"Dickie gave me these earrings as a wedding present. I wore them when we got married."

I slapped the box closed and tossed it carelessly onto the table.

"I don't believe this." I stood and pushed my chair back to the other side of the table. "I just can't catch a break with you, can I?"

She just looked away, hiding her tears from the waiter who was bringing our fudge cake. I tossed my napkin on the table and left, paying Bobby V. on the way out. I told him to bring her a box for the other dessert. I looked back and she was staring at the box and then at my cake. I expect she didn't know if she should take either of them home. When the waiter brought her the box, she seemed relieved to have had the decision made for her. I can't explain why I find that adorable, but I do. She seems so simple from a distance. So why is nothing ever simple between us?

I went outside and got behind the wheel of my SUV, but I just waited. I watched and waited, knowing what I was about to see. Ranger always had a man on her, and he'd know we'd just had a fight and he'd be right there to pick up the pieces. And, despite everything I knew I would feel, I sat there determined to watch.

Stephanie came out carrying a little bag with the cake in it. I didn't know about the earrings, and I didn't care. She eased herself behind the wheel of the Porsche, and picked up her phone, which was no doubt ringing. I saw Ranger slip from a black SUV that had paused on the street only long enough to deposit him. He slipped up to the Porsche, unlocking the doors with his own key fob and pulled Steph from behind the wheel, pressing her to him and kissing her right there on the street. He'd just walked up and tasted her.

All I tasted was bile. I knew what he felt. I understood that smooth confidence and sweeping a woman off her feet. I could do that with just about any woman out there, but when I did it, it felt like an act. It felt like playing a part, playing a game. But when I was with her, I couldn't get the façade to stick. I felt like she always ended up seeing me for what I really was. I had given up wondering why.

Ranger slid Stephanie into the passenger seat from the driver's side and he took the wheel, driving them down Roebling. I was about to follow them when my cell phone rang. The readout said it was Ranger.

I put the phone to my ear, but I wasn't capable of speech. He didn't say anything to me. I just listened and realized he wanted me to hear their conversation. I was thinking he was really going too far, and when I caught up to him, he was really going to wish he had never stepped foot into her life.

"Where are we going?" she asked Ranger.

"Trust me?" he asked.

"Yes."

I pulled out into traffic and within seconds was behind them.

"What happened with Morelli?" he asked. There was silence. I expected she was crying. "Babe."

"He gave me the earrings Dickey bought me for our wedding. I pawned them, and he bought them back for me." She was sobbing. "I never wanted to see them again and that goes double now. These things must be cursed!" She tried to get the window down to pitch them out of the car. Ranger grabbed the little box out of her hand and pulled over. I stayed right behind them.

He slowly opened the jewelry box. "Pretty." He pulled one out and examined it in the map light, then held it up to her ear to see how they'd look on her. "Now they're beautiful."

"Don't" she sobbed, pushing his hand away.

"These are just earrings, Babe. They don't care where they came from or where they go and they aren't cursed. The only significance they have is what you choose to give them." He paused, wiping a tear away from her cheek with his thumb. "I take it Morelli didn't know."

She shrugged and shook her head at the same time.

"If he'd known, he wouldn't have bought them back, right?"

She nodded grudgingly.

"So, what's wrong, Babe?"

"I was just so upset to see them," she cried, unable to speak. "He…left," she got out between sucking breaths.

"He didn't mean to hurt you, Babe."

"I know. It's just that I thought…I thought…" More sobbing and real tears. He held her close, pulling her over the console and into his lap. I was calculating how many ways I was going to make him wish for death for taking advantage of a situation like this.

"You thought what?" he asked, smoothing her curls.

"I thought he was proposing!" She collapsed into his arms, burying her face in his neck. "It was so perfect, Marsilio's, and he was saying the nicest things…"

"And you were disappointed," he pointed out to her, pulling her back and looking into her eyes.

"I feel like an idiot!"

"You two need a guidance counselor," he laughed softly.

"It's not funny," she said, hitting him lightly in the chest. "Stop laughing!"

"I know it's not funny, Babe. But, sometimes you are." He held her close. "And if it makes you feel any better, I don't think you're an idiot."

He let her cry until she was done and then drove her home. I followed him at a distance until he'd seen her safely into her apartment building. Then I pulled up to the door and waited. His cell phone was still on and I heard him kissing her goodnight.

"I'll be right down," he said to me, and he clicked his phone shut.

_To be continued…_


	18. Chapter 18 Ranger's Challenge

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I can't recommend the book **__**Wild At Heart**__** by John Eldredge strongly enough. It's a MUST read, and will be invaluable to you in character development and finding realistic motivations for your male characters.**_

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Ranger climbed into the passenger side of the SUV without hesitation. "Basketball court on Chambers," he said, issuing a challenge.

I drove to the basketball courts I grew up on, near the high school. This was my turf, and he knew it. That was the point.

There were two groups of older boys there, about ten or twelve, some in gang colors, some just playing ball. The lights were flooding the court and the crisp air was inviting.

"Move it, and leave the ball," Ranger ordered. The kids stopped playing, took a long look, whispered recognition between them, and tossed me the ball. The calmly got their gear and headed off, looking for a seat to watch the show. "Keep going," Ranger ordered, and they all turned and walked down the street.

We played hard. I was taller, but Ranger was stronger. We were both good players, and we knew all the tricks. We played by men's rules. If you can get it, get it, take it, make the play. We held our aggression tight to our chests, and played hard, but honest. There were no punches thrown, no elbows to the eye, no tripping. And it felt good.

When we were done, our shirts were off and we were dripping sweat till it was pooling in our shoes. We drank deeply from the water fountain several times and sat back in the SUV, breathing deep but with our heads finally clear.

"So, where did I go wrong?" I asked, since he was waiting for me to start. I was sure he was dying to tell me.

"Where to begin," he laughed. He pointed to the eagle tattooed on my chest. "Joining the Navy didn't really make a man out of you, did it?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"You gave yourself that tattoo. You joined the Army and they assigned you a rank, but you have never been given your name."

"What do you mean, I've never been given my name?"

"You can't name yourself. You have to have your manhood bestowed upon you by your superiors, or your brothers. Like out on the street."

"So, I'm not a man because I don't have a cheesy nickname like 'Ranger'? Fuck you, Manoso."

"You've been running from the Morelli name all this time. If you're ashamed of it, what kind of gift is that to give you the woman you love, or to your children?"

"I wasn't proposing," I said. "She misunderstood."

"I know she did. The question is why _weren't_ you proposing?"

"She's not ready to marry me."

"You're not ready to be married. And she knows it."

"Neither is she."

"She might be if you were," he said in a circular argument that was making my head spin.

"Look, it's simple. I asked her, she didn't want to, and I haven't felt like asking her again."

"Who'd want to be shot down again?" he agreed. "Rejection is a bitch."

I blew out a long sigh of frustration. Ranger was up to something but he wanted me to work for it. I wasn't really interested in his reverse psychology.

"What does she expect from me?"

"For one, I think she expected you to defend her against your mother."

I hadn't thought of that one.

"You didn't have a dad, and you're tied too tight to your mother's apron strings," Ranger continued. "I can understand that. Your mother's been hurt enough, and you don't want to hurt her. She's made you a surrogate and you feel responsible for her pain. But you've gotta cut those strings and leave her to sink or swim on her own, or you'll never win the girl. Until you do that, you don't deserve her."

"And you do? You promise her nothing," I said, shaking my head in disgust.

"You and I both know I can have her if I want her. It's not a matter of whether I deserve her or not."

"Really?" I said, feigning surprise at his arrogance.

"You don't hate me as much as you want to be like me," he said matter-of-factly.

"So, why are you playing this game?" I asked. "What exactly is it that you want, Manoso?"

He paused, searching my face. "I want her to be happy. She's loved you all her life. She doesn't know why, maybe. But, I think she sees what you can be, if you choose it, but you keep withdrawing. Coward," he said under his breath.

"If she's so in love with me, why is she always with you?" I twisted around in my seat to face him. "Every time I turn around, she's with you!"

"She's with me because I make time for her. But she's never been mine, Morelli. She's yours. Even when she _was_ mine, she was yours."

I was stunned. There it was. Confirmation. All this time I had wondered, but now I knew for sure.

Ranger didn't give it time to sink in. He went right on. "She's afraid I don't want or need her. You need her. That's good. Score one for you."

I glared at him and thought about what it would be like to splatter his brains all over the inside of my SUV. I gave it a good, long, gratifying thought before I let my mind settle on the aftermath of such a miscalculation. I could never live with it.

"You fail because you pursue her, win her, and then you don't know what to do with her, so you put work in her place. You push her away. You know you're man enough for your job. You know how to accomplish clear goals and objectives at work. You have no idea how to manage her and you're not even sure if you're man enough for her."

Those words rang in my ears as the sunk in and started to sting. "What do you suggest, _Professor Higgins_?" I said with venom, wanting to let him know that I too knew some of his secrets too. I had been paying attention to Stephanie's reference when they haggled over the Lonnie Dodd file at the bonds office.

Ranger smiled. "I suggest you include her in your personal as well as your professional life, but you need to be in the lead. You must always lead when the two of you are together. Be the man. Let her be the woman. Let her follow you. Protect her, but let her be helpful. Listen to her. Let her know she has value. But, most of all, let her be in danger, and then…rescue her." It sounded very much like a dare.

"Is that what you do? Put her in danger just so you can rescue her?" I knew he had done it a number of times, and it was the basis of most of my warnings to Stephanie that she should stay away from him. She never listened. She always wanted to go to him. I would never understand it.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "You know, instead of trying to mother her and keep her safe, you should try to be the hero. Look forward to it. Stop dreading it. Stop with the fear, the anxiety, and most of all, lay off the Maloxx. It's not attractive."

I sat back in my seat and we were silent for a few minutes, contemplating our next words.

"When do you think she's the happiest doing her job? What's her favorite part?" he asked.

"She's got to be helping someone, all the time. That's how she gets into these things…trying to help someone else."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Like her missing uncle Max and finding that little dog or my Julie."

"Yeah."

"It's a shame she can't do that all the time…huh? _Detective_?"

I turned to look at him again. "What are you saying?"

"I'm just saying that as long as you're a cop and she's not, you can't really work together unless someone's being threatened, killed, or comes up missing. It's a shame she has to chase down dangerous FTA's just to be near you. I mean, I've offered her other jobs, but she doesn't want to work for me. She likes running into you."

"I can't quit my job and chase her around full time like you do, Manoso," I complained.

"Why not?" As if it seemed reasonable to him that I should.

"I'm a cop."

"You don't have to be. We're not."

We were silent again for a few minutes while I though about that.

"You both have skills - very different skills - that compliment each other. You have the qualifications. She has gossip connections we can only dream about. I'd front you the money for a business. It would be a good investment. There's a market, Morelli, if you have the guts to take a chance."

"I do hate watching her chasing Vinnie's FTA's. But I'm a cop. I always wanted to be a cop. If I give that up to go chasing around virtually pro-bono cases with Steph, I'll look like a pansy, not to mention I'll be broke."

"Maybe if you were leading, and it was your name on the door, and she was following, she'd look respectable and you'd look like the luckiest guy in Trenton. And I'm sure you'd do more than just locate lost poodles."

I sighed, lay back in my seat, and pondered some more. I hated that Ranger was making sense, but I was glad someone was. As much as I wanted to hate him, I really didn't.

"Well," I finally said, "I guess that would be an adventure."

"Just remember, she doesn't want to be your road map, and you're not her's. She knows all of that terrain far too well."

"Meaning?"

"Give her something new to explore, get out into the real world with her and chase down both your dreams together or she'll get bored and look elsewhere. Only a real adventure is a real adventure."

"For someone who doesn't do relationships, you sure seem to think you know a lot about it," I said.

"I said my life doesn't lend itself to relationships. I never said I didn't understand them."

"Any more advice?"

"Just one more thing," he said, pulling his shirt over his head. "You're both going to get hurt. Love is dangerous. When you play with fire, you _will_ get burned. But you keep practicing, and eventually, one day, you're juggling fire. That is a rare talent. Most people don't stick to it long enough to learn. But I know you can do it." He almost smiled, but he didn't. He just gave a carefree shrug. "But, hey, it's up to you."

A black SUV rolled up to the curb and Ranger got out. And he was gone.

_To be continued..._


	19. Chapter 19 Steph's POV Blue Fish

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**STEPH'S POV**

Against all my better judgment, I was sitting in Kenny's van with Kenny and Buckey, parked across the way from Blue Fish, watching Dillon and Grandma Mazur strolling through the door on their way to find Jamal Alou. _It'll be fine_, I told myself. Then, I had to lean forward and put my head between my knees to make the world stop spinning. Good thing these guys knew CPR.

We watched, hoping not to see a group of men either running into or out of Blue Fish. That was the only sure sign of trouble I would probably get since we didn't have a wire.

We waited for what seemed like an hour, but according to Kenny was only ten minutes. Suddenly, Kenny and Buckey simultaneously got paged, and I about jumped out of my seat at the sound of their alarms.

Kenny read the readout. "Uh oh…gotta go."

"Go? What do you mean, 'gotta go'? We're on a stake out here."

"Duty calls. There's a fire near Liberty and Klein."

"What about me?" I asked.

"You can go with us, or we can leave you here."

"No!"

Kenny started the van and gave me a look that said he wasn't kidding. I knew lives were on the line and I had no choice, but Grandma Mazur's life was also on the line. I got out of the van, and as soon as the door was closed, Kenny pulled away, speeding down the street.

I was standing alone on Stark Street in front of Blue Fish. This was not good. I couldn't stand around out there for long without getting killed, so I walked into Blue Fish, thinking maybe I could blend in somehow and avoid being noticed.

It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light and smoky atmosphere. There was loud music coming from a rock-a-billy blues band performing live.

Suddenly, there was a lot of cheering and excitement, and my blood ran cold. Everyone's attention was focused on two little old ladies who were wrestling on the floor. There was hair pulling and a lot of slapping going on. They were trying to hit each other with their purses, but they were both too close. Dillon was standing along side, looking unsure where to put his hands even if he were to pull them apart. The prospect was clearly unappealing.

I ran to Grandma Mazur and wedged myself between the women. "Stop it!" I shouted. "What is going on?"

"She's got my husband's gun!" the other lady shouted. This gal was about 90 years old, with leathery smoker's skin and a voice to match. Her surprisingly thick hair was short, spiky straight, and white as a ghost. There were bags under her eyes, her jowls were waddling, and she was wearing a tank top and jeans, which showed off her extra arm skin to full effect.

"This is my gun, you crazy old bat!" Grandma Mazur shouted back. "And I know how to use it!"

"Go ahead," she challenged. "I know that gun. You'll never be able to hit the broadside of a barn with it. Sights off."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I'm the one who moved it, so my drunk ass husband couldn't shoot me in the back with it while I was making off with his car when I left him. That bastard was cheating on me!"

"Where was this?" I asked, afraid I probably already knew the answer.

"D.C.," she said, confirming my fears.

"Well, it's my gun now," Grandma Mazur said, pulling the gun from her purse and waiving it around. Everyone backed up about 10 feet. "If you wanted it, you should have taken it with you."

Suddenly, the old lady squinted her eyes and took a better look at Grandma and the gun. "It was you!" she screamed. "You were the one who stole my husband!"

While Grandma had her arms up, waiving the gun, she lunged and both ladies were sprawling on the floor again. The gun went skittering and I ran after it.

"Hey," someone shouted. "That's old Mrs. Mazur, and that other gal must be her granddaughter, Stephanie Plum, the bounty hunter."

"Bounty hunter?" someone else shouted. "Bounty hunter!"

There was a scattering of feet, which helped me find the gun. I grabbed it, and as I stood up, realized that I was looking down the barrel of about 20 guns of various shapes and sizes.

Suddenly, I caught sight of Alou. He was looking right at me from across the room. Between us, Grandma and the old lady from D.C. were having a cat fight again, but they had somehow gotten to their feet.

I took a deep breath and ran for Grandma. My only thought was that I had to get her out of there. Alou gave me credit for having a lot more guts, because he seemed to think I was running towards him to apprehend him. I was stopped short as he lifted his arm and a gun suddenly appeared in his hand, neatly ejected from his long sleeve. _Whoa_, I thought_, this guy was good._

I slid to a stop, my nose close to the barrel of his gun. Grandma Mazur saw me as I entered her limited field of vision, and she kicked the gal from D.C. hard in the gut and sent her sprawling across a small round table that tipped over and collapsed beneath her. She reached out for the only thing she could find for a weapon…a full pitcher of beer.

I knew it was coming so I hit the deck as Grandma sent the entire contents of the pitcher flying at Jamal Alou. The beer soaked him from head to toe, and he was clearly caught by surprise. No one would dare to do something like this to Alou. He raised his gun, and I spun around quickly, my leg making contact with the back of his knee and taking his legs out from under him. He started falling backwards, trying to correct himself, and ended up stumbling backwards towards the band. He was dripping with beer, and there was a large pool of liquid on the floor behind him. He was slipping as he stumbled. He reached out, looking for any kind of support, and grabbed a lone mic housed in a crooked microphone stand. There was a bright flash and a crackle and smoke. Alou jerked and flailed in the pool of beer. The lights in Blue Fish flickered and finally went out.

We were in the dark. I grabbed the first arm with thin loose flesh I came into contact with, and we ran for the door.

_To be continued…_


	20. Chapter 20 Frank's Only Son

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

I was returning the basketball Ranger and I had "borrowed" from the boys at the high school. I found them at a nearby park, standing around a burning trash can smoking dope. I was putting my shirt back on and was about to get out of the SUV to return the ball, when I realized that I was too much at ease on my old turf, and remembered that I was a cop with a bullseye on my back. I pulled my shirt back off and put my vest on, then pulled my shirt and jacket on over it.

I was about to get out, when one of the kids approached the SUV. I rolled down the window, realizing only then that I was holding my breath, waiting with my hand hovering over my gun till I could see both of his hands were empty. He pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets, but it was dark, and I couldn't see him that well until he was too close for it to matter. He reached out for the ball, and I tossed it out the window to him. He caught it, and we just looked at each other for a second – not in a friendly way, but in a cautious way. He turned and walked back to the other boys, and I rolled my window up and was slowly pulling back onto the street when the scanner reported a fire off Liberty.

My thoughts flashed back to dinner. Steph said that Dillon and Grandma Mazur were going after Alou at Blue Fish later tonight. I wondered if I should head over there and help, like she'd asked. I was already on my way when the police scanner announced a fight at Blue Fish. I sped up. I was fishing around for my Kojak light when I passed Dillon Rudick's car. Steph and Grandma Mazur were with him. I pulled a u-turn and slapped the blue light on the roof of the SUV and followed.

Dillon didn't see me at first, so I hit my siren. He looked back, swerving in panic a little. I saw Steph turn and look, then tell him it was me, urging him to stop till he finally slowed and pulled over. I pulled in behind them just as the scanner reported the need for an ambulance to respond to a possible fatality at Blue Fish.

I got out and walked up to the passenger window.

"Want to tell me now, or down at the station?" I asked.

"It wasn't my fault," she insisted.

"That's right. It was an accident. And it was self-defense," Grandma Mazur announced from the back seat.

"Where is the gun?" I asked.

"I have it," Steph said, showing me the .45 long barrel her Grandma usually carried.

"And who got shot?" I asked.

"No one got shot. Not a single shot fired," Steph assured me.

"Then why is there a dead body at Blue Fish?"

"How can you possibly know that?" Dillon asked, incredulous.

"Someone called the cops," I told him. Turning back to Steph, I pressed on. "Well?"

"Okay. Grandma got into a fight with another woman who said the long barrel was her gun. She somehow got the idea that her husband had been cheating on her with Grandma." I tried not to snicker, holding tight to my cop face. "When I tried to separate them, someone recognized me. Alou pulled a gun on me, Grandma hit him with a full pitcher of beer, I tripped him, and he grabbed a microphone as he was going down and accidentally got electrocuted."

I stared at her, trying to make sense of the images in my head. "She doused him with beer. You tripped him. He grabbed a microphone and got electrocuted."

"Yep."

"None of this would have happened if he hadn't pulled a gun on Stephanie," Dillon interjected.

"None of this would have happened if you had sent Dillon in alone like I suggested," I said. "Why the hell did you go in there?" I asked Steph.

"I was outside waiting with Kenny and Buckey, but they got a fire call and took off, leaving me stranded outside Blue Fish. I had not choice but to go in. And Grandma was already on the ground fighting with that old battle ax."

"Okay," I groaned. "I have to go to Blue Fish and check out the scene. Don't move."

I went back to my SUV and pulled out my radio and called Gazarra. He was one of Steph's best friends and one of the few cops I could really trust. He estimated he could be there in ten minutes, so I waited until he pulled up in his personal vehicle. He was barely in uniform. He'd been at home, off duty, when I'd called.

"What's up?" he asked. "Was that really Steph and Grandma Mazur involved in the fight at Blue Fish?"

"Yeah," I said, waiving him to come up to Dillon's car. "I need you to keep an eye on these troublemakers while I go down to Blue Fish and sort out this mess."

"You got it," Gazarra said. "I'm your witness." He leaned down and called to Dillon. "Wait till I can follow, then drive down the street here to the little grocery store, and we'll wait in the parking lot so we're less conspicuous and out of the way."

Dillon nodded. I patted Gazarra on the back and headed off for Blue Fish.

When I got there, the scene was just as Stephanie had described. One extra crispy arms dealer with flies.

After processing the scene and talking to the coroner, asking all those present for an account and taking all the notes and pictures I thought I might need, I returned to my SUV and called Gazarra. I met up with them in the parking lot and got into the backseat of Dillon's car with Grandma so I could talk to them.

"Alou is dead. Electrocuted. It appears to have been an accident, and that is what is going in my report, however, it is going to be a wait and see if the D.A. is going to pursue involuntary manslaughter charges."

"Manslaughter? Charged against who?" Steph asked breathlessly.

"That's up to the D.A. Could be you or Grandma or both."

"He's the one who pulled the gun."

"I know. It's attached to him, and he's still holding it tight. That's one of the reasons I doubt the D.A. is going to bother prosecuting this case. It's a waste of their time. However, I have no witnesses to the event."

"What do you mean there are no witnesses? Blue Fish was full tonight. Everyone saw what happened," Dillon said, turning all the way around in his seat to look at me.

"On Stark Street, there are no witnesses. No one claims to have seen a thing. They live by a code. They don't rat on anyone. Ever. That's both good and bad." Steph gave me a quizzical look. "It's good because no one is accusing you of murdering Alou. No one is even placing you at the scene. It's bad because these people don't believe in our justice system. They have their own."

"What are you saying?" Steph asked, holding her breath and knowing what was coming.

"I'm saying you need to stay at your parent's house tonight, or better yet, a safehouse."

She groaned and slid down into her seat. "I knew it. I just knew it. It was only a matter of time."

"What do you want to do?" Dillon asked her.

"How about I take you and Grandma home?" I offered.

She was silent. Frustrated tears were filling her eyes as I helped Grandma out and opened her front passenger door. I offered my hand, and she reluctantly took it and let me lead her around to the passenger side of the SUV. I thanked Dillon and Gazarra for watching out for them, and we drove away.

I parked out front of Stephanie's parent's house. I walked Grandma Mazur to the door first. She'd stiffened up, sore from the fight. I deposited her inside the house and then came back for Steph. She was shivering in the front seat from fear and emotional exhaustion. It had been a very long, very bad day.

I stood on the sidewalk beside her open door, leaning in and stroking her hair, brushing it away from her eyes and forehead.

"Cupcake," I whispered. "I'm sorry things didn't go as planned tonight." She looked a little confused, not sure if I meant dinner or Blue Fish. I meant both.

She slipped from my grasp, ducking under my arm past me, walking towards the house alone.

"Hey," I said, grabbing her arm and turning her around. "Wait."

"Don't" she said, pushing me away and trying to turn back towards the house.

"I love you, Cupcake. With all my heart."

"Doesn't look like it," she said with a hint of malice. That caught me by surprise.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you look and smell like you just crawled out of bed…someone else's."

I raised both eyebrows and then remembered that I was a sweaty mess after having played basketball with Ranger. I couldn't tell her about my talk with Ranger. She would think we were conspiring behind her back. But, a lie wouldn't serve me well, I thought, so I decided to give her as much truth as I could without giving too much.

"I was playing basketball," I told her. "There is no one else for me but you. Maybe there was once, but there isn't now. And I'm sorry I didn't ask you to marry me again. I should have."

She stared at me, her mouth open.

"And I'm proud of you for assembling your team. It takes time to build and train a team. You're not going to get it together in one night. Give it some time."

"You're not giving up on me?" She squeaked, a single tear falling.

"Never, Cupcake." I opened my arms and she rushed into them. "I need you."

She squeezed me tight and cried for a few minutes while I held her, right there on the sidewalk. I needed to get her inside, so I scooped her up in my arms and carried her up the stairs into the house. Her mother held the door, and I carried her right up the stairs and into her old bedroom. I laid her on the bed, and she relaxed. I pulled off her shoes, pulled down the covers, and tucked her in.

"You've had enough for today," I told her, kissing her goodnight and turning off the light as I left.

"I love you, Joe," she said as I turned to go.

"I love you too," I said.

I went downstairs. Grandma Mazur was just finishing explaining the night's events to Mom and Frank. Frank gave me the signal. I kissed Mom goodnight and followed Frank to the back of the garage. We sat on our paint cans and lit up.

"So, what's the deal with Steph and this Ranger guy?" he asked. "You know, he came to the house for dinner not long ago? Sat in your seat at the table, too."

"No, I didn't know that. I can't believe it," I said, positively stunned.

"Yep. Didn't even stay for dessert."

"Now that I can believe."

"So, where were you?" Frank asked in an almost accusatory tone.

"Sitting on Dickie, I suppose." I had to laugh. "I can't understand how all of a sudden Dickie seems to keep getting in my way. Ranger I can understand, but Dickie? He's not even trying and he's ruining my life."

"The only thing that scumbag is fit to get in the way of is a speeding bus, and I know where we can find one," Frank said, spitting a stray piece of cigar paper from the corner of his mouth.

I told him about dinner, the earrings, basketball with Ranger minus some of the details, and about Blue Fish.

Referring to the earrings, Frank said, "Dickie always thought he could buy a woman's affections. He has no idea what it takes to make a marriage work."

"What's it take, Frank?" I asked, genuinely interested in his opinion.

"What do you think it takes, Stupid? Love. L-O-V-E."

"That's kind of obvious, but there's more to it, or we'd have worked things out by now."

"Joe, when you love a woman enough to marry her, you have to be willing to give up your own dreams for the security and well being of your wife and kids." He spat again. "I'm not saying you never get your way or that having dreams is bad. I'm just saying that your family has to be more important."

"Stephanie is the most important thing to me, but I just don't know how to show her," I said. "Ranger killed for her. He's sacrificed himself for her. He's been shot or injured I don't know how many times trying to help her or defend her. And I can't even calculate the amount of money he's spent on her over the years. He always has more time for her. I can't compete with all that." I blew out a long smoky breath and dropped my head into my hands, rubbing my throbbing temples. "I don't even want to _try_ to compete with that."

"Joe, that stuff's all physical. He's probably killed before and will likely kill again, believe me...I've met him. That's one scary guy. And maybe he's put his life on the line for her, but you put your life on the line every day. You'd give your life for complete strangers if the situation called for it! I'm not so sure he'd be willing to do that. And yeah, I'm thankful this guy's been around to protect Steph, but that's not love." He took a long drag off his cigar. "Sure, he'd die for her. It's easy to die for someone. But living with them...that's real love. That's the test."

I sighed. "I don't have anything to give her that she wants. She doesn't want the house with the white picket fence and 2.5 kids, I can't afford for her to blow up all my vehicles, and I don't have time to follow her all around town while she's playing Wonder Woman."

"Come on, Joe. You're making this way too hard. You just give her your heart, swallow your pride, swear undying loyalty, and the rest will follow. Loving someone is a decision, a choice, not a feeling. And you can't buy it." He paused. "Okay you do have to buy some of it, but that all comes later, especially after the kids are born."

"Frank! You're not helping!"

He chuckled as he blew out another lungful of cancer. "You learn to cope, and you find a place where you have peace when you need it, and you just hang in there, letting her know that you'll never leave, no matter what."

"You almost left once," I said, reminding him of the time he threatened to move out when Valerie, Albert and the kids were all planning to move in with them. In combination with Grandma Mazur, I had to agree it would be too much for any man to endure.

"Temporary insanity. You're allowed one break down every decade. It's an unwritten rule, but it's still part of the game. Besides, I didn't leave."

"That's because Stephanie let them use her apartment," I reminded him.

"I taught her to be there for her family, and she was. That's how it's done," he said, as if I had just proven his point instead of my own. I had to smile.

"Has it been worth it, Frank?"

"The thing about a woman…she'll drive you crazy. Then, she'll drive you crazy. But, is it worth it? Yeah. What else are you going to do with your life? Your heart doesn't mean a thing till you give it away. I mean, what are you keeping it safe for anyway? Is there any other use for it?"

He took a long drag off his cigar and leaned back against the garage. "There are a lot of things I have to do that I don't want to do. There are a lot of situations that I find myself in with this family that I have no control over. Actually, most situations in life fall into that category. I think the greatest lesson I've learned is to be content with nothing." I looked back around the side of the garage at the house and yard and back to Frank with a raised eyebrow. "Okay, with very little," he said. "I'm proud to say I didn't let the love of my life get away. I'm proud of my daughters often enough. I'm proud to say I've provided for my family for over thirty years. Not a lot of men can say that these days. Beside," he said, blowing out another long drag. "That old bag can't hang on forever," he said under his breath, referring to Grandma Mazur.

"I don't know," I said. "I think she may outlive all of us."

"Tell me about it!" he said with a sudden shiver. "I have nightmares that I go first. I'm lying in my coffin, peaceful and quiet, and all of a sudden I wake up to see her ugly mug prying my casket open at my own viewing! I wake up in a cold sweat, just this side of a heart attack." I was grinning ear to ear, but Frank still looked serious. He ground out his cigar. "Probably she'd be too afraid to tell Helen she finally did me in, so she'd just have me stuffed by that Coglin nut. And you know, around here, probably no one would notice."

"I'd notice," I assured him. "I'd even run her in for you," I joked.

"I know you would." He patted me on the back. "You know, Joe, even if you never manage to marry that girl, you're still the closest thing to a son I'm ever going to have."

My heart suddenly banged around in my chest. I was somehow relieved inside to hear it. "I've always thought of you as Dad, Frank."

"We're in this together, then," he said, as I ground out my cigar. We stood and walked back towards the house.

"You're nothing like Rocco Morelli, you know," Frank said, was we went our separate ways. "And you're a better man for Stephanie than Ranger. You two remind me of that story about the widow and the mite."

"How's that?"

"Ranger gives out of his abundance, but you give everything you have even when you have nothing to spare. You give her everything you have, and you hold back nothing from her. That makes your sacrifices for her much more valuable than Ranger's. Remember that, Son."

_To be continued…_


	21. Chapter 21 Sally's New Passengers

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

A long, long day was turning into an even longer night. I met with Bell and we agreed to wake up the judge and get a warrant to search Alou's last known residence and storage lockers for additional evidence. It was a tough sell. Judges don't like it when the police are going after the victim of a homicide for evidence in other cases. But, under the circumstances, we were rewarded with a warrant.

Eddie Gazzara was back in uniform and waiting for us at the station. We gathered a competent group and went in the dark of night, raiding Alou's private gun stashes, his work rooms, and seizing a sizable number of illegal firearms, gunsmithing equipment, and a whole lot of cash. It took a long time to sort, tag, photograph, and catalogue the lot. We were sending all of the guns for ballistics testing to see if we could find any matches to the guns used in the recent murders, but I wasn't holding my breath. It just didn't feel right to me. But maybe another case would be solved when we got the results back. At least this horde wouldn't be back out on the street anytime soon.

The sun was well up in the sky when Gazarra and I called Steph at her parent's house to see if she wanted to join us for breakfast. As it turned out, she was already gone.

She answered her cell on the fourth ring.

"I can't talk, Joe," she said, and she hung up.

"That can't be good," Gazzara said.

I sighed and did the only thing I could do. I dialed Ranger to find out where she was for what I swore to myself would be the last time. She was sitting with Sally in his bus looking for Cuppa and Burn. Ranger had a man on her. Garazza volunteered to keep her in his sights till I joined them. I thanked him with a pat on the back and marched down the hall to the Chief's office.

I explained about the night's events, about Stephanie and my need to keep her whereabouts known, and I got permission to borrow a very nice set of GPS tracking devices from "lost and found". I could have bought my own off the streets. I knew where to get them. But this was faster and a hell of a lot cheaper.

As I was picking them up, I also noticed a scanner used for detecting tracking devices and bugs, and I borrowed that as well. I had always wanted to scan my house and personal vehicle for Ranger's fingerprints. I was sure they were there. I just didn't know where.

As I was thinking about my house, I seriously considered for the first time changing the future that had always seemed etched in stone. I didn't _have_ to grow old in that house just because it had been given to me by Aunt Rose. She hadn't intended for me to live a certain life just out of a sense of moral obligation, did she? I mulled it over while I showered at the station and changed into a spare pair of jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt that I kept in my locker for just such an occasion.

I checked in with Gazzara and headed out met him. He was about ten blocks from Central High. Steph and Sally were sitting in Sally's school bus watching a residential street. They were looking for Cuppa and Burn. Along the way, I noticed several for-sale signs and decided to call one of them just to see what they would suggest for a selling price on my house. It was more than I figured. I knew what the value was on my tax sheet, but I didn't realize what the market value was. Something to think about.

I pulled up several cars behind the bus. I wished I could hear what they were saying. I hadn't thought to get a mic, but I had GPS sunglasses. I slipped them into my shirt pocket and called Steph's cell.

"Can you talk to me now?" I asked.

"For a minute," she said.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Looking for your leads," she said. "You haven't found Dimas Varela and Lino Pavia yet, right?"

"Not yet, but I don't think you're going to find them anywhere near Central."

She turned around inside the bus and started scanning the street for me.

"I _hate_ it when you guys sneak up on me! Where are you?"

"I'm half a block down behind the white van and Gazzara is half a block west of you in his black and white.

"Gazzara's probably scaring them off!"

"I'll call him," I said, hanging up. I got out of my SUV and locked up, called Gazzara and watched him drive away, and then knocked on the bus door. Sally opened it, and I stepped inside.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, then gave me the once over. I was clean but tired. "You haven't been to bed, have you?"

"No, Cupcake. I'm working."

"So, are you here to arrest me?"

The thought of Steph in handcuffs sort of tickled me, and a rather evil grin escaped. "Would you like that?" I asked suggestively.

"No!" she said, jumping back reflexively as if I were about to reach out and grab her.

"Bell and I have both talked to the Chief, and it looks like all we're going to need is a statement from you, Grandma Mazur, Dillon, and Gazzara."

"Gazzara? He wasn't even there. What is he going to testify about?"

"Your behavior following the incident, which is why I called him the other night."

"Oh." She looked up and down the street.

"I don't see anyone," I said.

"They haven't been by yet, and school has already started. They're either late or not coming." We watched as a tough looking group of guys who looked too old for high school came down the street from the direction of the school. They turned down an alley a block ahead of us.

"Nice," I said. "The dealers are off to have donuts and coffee."

"Mmmm," Steph said, both agreeing with me and suggesting that she'd like donuts and coffee.

After a few minutes, we saw two figures cut across a yard two blocks away, running behind the gang of boys towards the school. Sally started the bus, and we drove down the street towards them. One was Caucasian wearing a brown leather jacket and blue jeans. The other was Black, wearing a thick black hoodie and baggy black pants. The second kid was sort of doing a hop like his shoes were two sizes too small.

Sally went around the block like, tearing through the residential neighborhood in a full-sized school bus like a man possessed. He came to a screeching halt in the middle of the next intersection, blocking their path, opening the door, and in an impressive voice barked a four-letter command at the boys, ordering them onto the bus.

"Cuppa" Joe and Lucas "Burn" stood there in disbelief until Steph stuck her head out the door and added, "Remember me?"

Then they scanned the bus windows and saw me. They were about to turn and run when Sally pulled an Uzi from under his driver's seat and popped off a well-rehearsed round at the pavement just in front of them. I groaned, feeling the battery acid level in my empty stomach ratcheting up a notch. I tried to breathe deeply and remember what Ranger had said about enjoying the ride while I tried not to think about happens to cops who find themselves spending time in places like the state pen.

The boys boarded the bus with their hands on their head and Sally patted them down. They were unarmed except for the pocket knife, which Sally let Lucas keep. He shoved them into a seat and sat across from them with the Uzi on his lap, looking quite comfortable. He'd obviously spent a lot of time with his Uzi. I climbed into the driver's seat and parked the bus halfway down the block. I think Sally would have been just fine leaving us sitting in the intersection.

Steph sat on top of a seat back so that they had to look up at her. Psychologically that was pretty smart, I thought. She stared them down for a few seconds.

"Why are you so late for school?" She asked.

"What are you, the truant officer?" Joe asked haughtily.

"I'm the one who's going to make your life a living hell for blowing up my car," she said, searching their faces for signs of recognition. They weren't denying it.

"You're not kidding," Lucas groaned, as if she didn't know the half of it.

She looked him over. His lip was split but the swelling was down. She reached down and wiped his eye with the end of her sleeve and the cream color came off before he could slap her hand away, revealing a purple and green bruise on his left eye. She looked at Joe and saw that, although it was harder to recognize at a distance, he was also bruised, mostly along his jaw.

"Want to tell me about it?" she asked.

Both boys just glared at her. They weren't nearly as menacing as they thought they were. She'd dealt with true psychopaths. These two were mere children.

"I know you didn't have time to make it to my car. Did you have someone else do it? Are you in some kind of trouble now?"

Lucas turned his head away from her and looked out the window.

"Why were you sneaking to school?" Sally asked. "Someone waiting for you?"

Joe gave him a cold stare, and Sally gave it right back. Sally was very tall and could be rather intimidating if you didn't know what he looked like in a red sequined dress.

"I want you to tell me who blew up my car," Steph said, her courage bolstered by Sally's presence.

"No way," Lucas said stoically, as if resigned that we could try to beat it out of him, but he wasn't going to tell. This from the kid who caved in for a Krimpet a few days ago.

"I'm thinking you must be part of a gang," Sally said. "That's all there is in this part of the city. Gangs. Which gang are you with?" he asked. They weren't wearing gang colors and weren't exhibiting any signs to tip him off.

"We're not joining any gangs," Joe said, indicating that he was tired of having to answer this question.

"Is someone pressuring you to join a gang?" I asked, rising from my seat and standing next to Steph, my arms crossed in front of me.

"Who isn't?" Joe said, glaring at me before adding, "Pig," under his breath.

"I'm not," Steph snapped at him.

"What gang?" I asked.

"Depends which of us you ask," he said, anger simmering just under the surface.

"What do you mean?" Steph asked.

"You spoiled Burg bitch! You have no idea what it's like out here," he said, spittle spraying as he spoke.

"Maybe you could enlighten me," she said, leaning towards him.

"One wants him, and one wants me, and they damn sure don't want us on the same crew no more. It's a race thing."

"Are the guys in your house in these gangs?" I asked.

"The house is divided," Joe said. "The house monster is playing one against the other and he's the only one winning. We're not playing that game."

"What is the game?" I asked.

Lucas elbowed Joe hard. Lucas was more scared than mad, and Joe was more mad than scared. But both were between a rock and a hard place. Lucas' stomach growled loudly, just as it had the other day.

"What are the consequences for not playing ball?" I asked, knowing what they must be.

"Beatings. Anyone can steal from us. Whatever. It's open season on us," Joe said.

"Does that include food?" I asked. Steph looked sideways at me and then back to the boys.

"It includes everything," he said.

"You didn't blow up my car, did you?" she asked.

"You got your car blown up just by showing up at the house," Joe told her. "We didn't ask anyone to do that. They just did it, and now they say we owe them for doing us a favor."

"Would have happened anyway," Lucas said, looking back out the window. "They still would have been blackmailing us with something."

"What do they want you to do?" Steph asked.

"Whatever they say," Joe answered.

Sally got up and started the bus. We drove to the nearest McDonalds. I handed him the only bill in my wallet – a ten – and he went inside and brought back three bags full of breakfast biscuits, hash browns, and orange juice. That was way more than my ten would have covered. I just smiled at him as he passed out the food.

Once they smelled the food, Joe and Lucas were much more trusting. The way to their hearts, like Steph's, appeared to be through the stomach.

"Is that better?" Steph asked as the boys started on their third sandwiches. They both nodded, too busy chewing to answer. "So, maybe we can make a deal. What if Sally were to pick you up and drop you off everyday? With breakfast? Would you go to school on time?"

The boys looked at each other, smelling a rat. They looked back at her with suspicion. "What else do you want?" Lucas asked. "No one gives something for nothing."

"I want you to help us take down the house monster." She said. "Morelli's cousin is a very nice man and he's offered to take the job, if it were vacant."

"What, like a house pig?" Joe asked, shooting me a look.

"My cousin paints houses. He's no cop," I assured him.

"A house painter? Sounds like slave labor in the making to me," Joe complained.

"Well, since you have it so good where you are, never mind then."

I turned to Sally and suggested we head to the school. He started the bus and we were jostled around for several blocks until he pulled up in front of the school.

"I'll go in with you and have a word with your principal," I offered.

"No way," Lucas argued. "We have enough trouble without you."

"You're probably on your way to being expelled without me."

"Fine, then we don't have to come down here at all," Lucas said.

"What is your problem?" Stephanie asked. "We're trying to help you."

"We didn't ask you." Joe said, barreling down the aisle and off the bus.

"Leave us alone. You're just making it worse," Lucas said, making to follow Joe.

Steph grabbed his jacket sleeve, pulling him to her. He let her, but was prepared to pull away if she said anything he didn't like. He was giving her the big brown doe eyed look I knew way too well from practicing it in the mirror. He was working her over good, looking for any angle, any soft spot he could press to manipulate her for more food, rides, money, anything.

"Lucas, you need help," she said. "We just want to help you."

"Even after we blew up your car?" he asked, as if making her out to be the Mother Teresa of Good Samaritans.

"Sure," she said, as if the car had been nothing. Never mind that she was risking her life to bring in a big enough FTA to pay for it.

"Well," he said, appearing to reconsider and about to relent. He looked around the bus, as if inviting her to ask him to meet her every morning for breakfast.

I'd had enough. I stepped behind him and pushed him down the aisle. "Sally will be in front of your house every school day with a couple donuts. He's only honking once, so you'd better be ready to go. He'll pick you up after school and drop you off last. The rest is up to you," I said, shutting the door behind them and ordering Sally to take off. We left them standing in a cloud of black smoke.

"I was just getting somewhere with Lucas!" Steph complained.

"I think Lucas was just getting somewhere with you," I said. "You can't be that nice to kids who grew up on the street, Cupcake. He was working you, and you didn't even know it."

"Maybe I knew it, and I was just letting him think he was working me," she said. For the first time, I thought maybe she was telling the truth about that. She'd been in this position so many times, that it was possible she had learned her lesson and was using what she knew. I couldn't be sure.

"Good work, Sally. Let's see if we can get the boys to rat out that house monster. Remember, we need hard evidence." He nodded.

Sally pulled up along side my SUV and Steph and I got out. I needed to get the first transmitter on Steph before I lost her again. I pulled the sunglasses off my shirt where they were hanging, and I pulled Steph to me. She was a little steamed at me, and we hadn't really made up from the last few fights we'd had, so I was pressing my luck, but I kissed her anyway. To my surprise, she not only let me, she returned the kiss.

"I love you, no matter what, Cupcake," I told her.

"I know," she said, nuzzling her face into my sweatshirt. Her hands were making contact with my vest again, and she stiffened a little, remember the danger I was still in.

"Here," I said as I pulled her back and slid the sunglasses on her. "See anything?"

"Hey!" she cried. "I can see behind me!"

"Always watch your back, Cupcake," I told her, giving her fanny a little pat as she walked back to the bus. "Don't lose those. They're expensive."

"Thanks, Joe," she said. The door closed, and they were gone.

I got in my SUV and turned on the receiver. It took a minute to warm up and acquire the signal, but there she was, a little blip on the GPS screen, moving away down the street which was clearly marked on the map. Man, I could see why Ranger was addicted to these gadgets. I wanted more of these.

_To be continued..._


	22. Chapter 22 Lino's Piece

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV **

Steph and Sally were on their way to a "crew meeting" at Kuntz Appliance since Bernie couldn't leave the store. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that one, but I had other plans.

I wasted no time getting to Steph's apartment building where I set to work disabling Ranger's tracking monitor that was hard-wired into the Porsche and replacing it with a portable the GPS I had borrowed. I wasn't sure that was the only tracer on the car, but it was the only one I could identify visually and using the scanning wand. Then I did the same with her apartment. I'd had it wired for sound once before, but she'd made me remove the equipment as soon as she thought she was out of danger. The listening devices I was using looked just like regular wall plugs, and they used the electricity from the outlet. I was betting she'd never notice. After all, she's never noticed Ranger's even after seeing the one's I had so easily installed. She was even using two of his outlets. When I finished, I had to reset her alarm clock in her bedroom.

I was just packing up and giving the apartment one last sweep when my cell phone rang.

"You _will_ be returning that equipment," Ranger said, issuing more of a command than a request.

"I don't know," I said. "It's nice stuff."

"I know." He was definitely annoyed.

"You can take the tail off her too, Manoso."

"Who says she's got a tail? Maybe it's you who's got a tail."

"I don't think so."

"I hear you're shopping for real estate."

"I made one phone call," I said, starting on a mild Italian rant. _The Burg grapevine leaked like a sieve_, I thought.. I had wanded my SUV and found nothing. I really wanted to believe that he got this information from the infamous Burg gossips who worked at the real estate office I had called. Otherwise, he had my phone tapped, which was a federal offense, or else he really did have a tail on me that was close enough to pick up my cell phone signal out of the air. That was much more likely, knowing Ranger. "Just one call," I growled again.

"Around here, that's all it takes," Ranger said with a satisfied air. "Sounds like it won't be long till you'll be painting both your names on the doors of your own office. I might even throw some business your way."

Oh, no. I knew what he was saying, and he was not working with Steph on my watch. No way. "Over my dead body," I told him.

"Maybe…" he said, as if the possibility appealed to him. I knew he was kidding. At least, I thought he was kidding. "You'll need insurance you know - a lot of insurance. I can hook you up," he said. I knew he was baiting me.

"No, thanks," I said flatly.

"Don't be so quick to burn your bridges, Morelli. It's not good business. Let's talk about it face to face."

"You have something in mind?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"I want to show you something."

"What?" I asked, growing increasingly suspicious.

"Drop your SUV off at the RangeMan garage. We only need one vehicle."

I groaned. This had all the makings of a bad gangster film."Do you or do you not have a lead for me?" I asked, cutting to the chase.

"Let's call it an anonymous tip."

"What'll it cost me?" I asked, insinuating that I still believed him to be the money driven mercenary he had always claimed to be.

"The first one is free," he said, clearly amused.

"And after that?"

"We'll see."

I rolled up to the gate at RangeMan and it opened by itself. The control room had me on their monitors and had buzzed me in. I parked in the underground garage, and scanned the dark corners of the garage for Ranger. I didn't see anyone.

I got out of the SUV and locked it. The passenger door of the shiny, black Cayenne with tinted windows popped open, and I stepped into the vehicle beside Ranger. There was a very scary looking Hispanic man in the back seat. He was slender but muscular, as all of Ranger's men were. He had a gang slogan tattooed on his neck and prison tattoos on his arms, hands, and fingers. He had two teardrop tattoos. The one closest to his eye, with the oldest color, was fully colored in. This usually meant he'd killed someone while in prison. The second was half filled in. The top part was uncolored. This signified that a loved one had been murdered, but that the wearer had taken vengeance on the murderer. It looked fresh. The tattoos, along with the glint of steel in his eyes, told me that this man was deadly. Ranger's crew was as real as it gets.

I wasn't sure what Hector's connection to my case was. I'd heard of him from Stephanie and had seen him from a distance once or twice. Ranger and Hector spoke Spanish for a minute as we drove towards the area of Cass and Canal, not far from the New Jersey State Prison. Hector was giving Ranger directions.

Ranger saw my questioning look as we drove deeper into neighborhoods that I would scarcely venture into with backup.

"Hector lives in this area," he said. "No questions about the info you are about to receive. Hector is not going to be named in any reports. He will not be subpoenaed as a witness. He will give no testimony of any kind. Any problem with that?"

I knew it was a take it or leave it deal. "Anonymous tip," I agreed.

Hector indicated that we had arrived at our destination. Ranger parked. Then he turned to Hector, who handed him a black RangeMan ball cap and windbreaker. "Put these on," Ranger told me. "No questions."

I realized this could easily be a set-up, but it wouldn't be sporting, and that wouldn't be Ranger. I hated admitting, let along proving, that I trusted him, but I didn't have much choice. I needed a lead, so I put them on. Then Ranger handed me a very expensive camera with a large lens and a light meter. I put the cord of the light meter over my head so it hung down my chest like a coach's whistle.

"You are a photographer who has paid us to bring you out here to take pictures of some of the finer _pieces. _Hector and I are acting as your bodyguards and tour-guides. Keep the brim of the hat down over your eyes as much as possible." I nodded.

We got out and all three of us walked down the train tracks to a large concrete wall that formed up one side of a drainage ditch. There were tall ghetto apartment complexes off in the distance on either side. As we came out from under an overpass I saw a back to back graffiti piece. This was the work of some real artists who had thrown up a complex series of pictures that smoothly blended one into another to make a long, unbroken, mural that must have been a half mile long. It was truly magnificent. This was the artist's hall of fame, and these artists truly respected each other. There were no write-over's here.

Hector lead the way to a 3-D piece that was almost popping off the wall, not just with color, but with shading and detail that was almost fooling you into walking into it. The signature, LINC13, was fantastic in and of itself. The mural section showed a Hispanic man with prison tattoos behind bars, dreaming about his freedom. Thought bubbles expressed his dreams, which included the same man standing in a ripe field of corn at harvest, a Latino wedding, and a dazzling star and moon nightscape above a spectacular seaside sunset. There was nothing gang related about Lino's dreams.

I stood there with my mouth open. Ranger stood beside me, surveying the mural.

"That's one talented kid," he said with a note of sadness that we both understood.

"I need to find him," I said out loud.

"Then what? Put him in a foster home where he'll have a chance to be a real artist?" Ranger gestured towards the wall in a way that seemed incongruous with our conversation. He was making a show of explaining the mural to me. We were being watched.

"Yeah," I said. "What's wrong with that?" I asked.

"Don't get your hopes up," he cautioned. Then he added almost urgently, "You need to start taking pictures, and make it look professional."

I walked up to the wall and pretending to take a light reading. Then I stepped back and started snapping pictures, walking up and down the area, looking at other pieces as well.

"Is that all?" I asked, returning my attention to Ranger and Hector, who were sticking close.

"Not quite," Ranger said. "Lino Pavia is part of Dimas Varela's crew."

"I know that," I said.

"What else do you know?" Ranger asked.

"Varela's claiming to be the new king on the block but he's too young unless he really has MS-13 connections in El Salvador like he says he does. I would bet he's only dealing here in Trenton though."

"You're right. Varela's small time. But he's got a big mouth. He's got no legitimate connections. He's only half El Salvadorian and he was born here in Trenton. He has heard true stories about MS-13 because he knows the names of a branch of the leadership. If he had chosen another gang to claim affiliation with or if he'd just avoided naming names, he'd probably be alright even though he's just a poser. But he's been bragging that he was commissioned as a lead dog by the new general of MS-13 in El Salvador. Word got back to this guy, and rumor has it he's sending a representative to find out why Varela hasn't been paying his taxes. When they find out he's just a kid and a liar to boot, it won't be pretty."

"So, he's not really MS-13?"

"No. Probably someone in his family is, though. But that won't save him."

"Does Varela know about this representative?"

"Doubt it. Like I said, he has no real connections."

"So, what is it you think is about to happen?"

"You use a man's name like that, and he's expecting his due. Varela can't pay they kind of money these guys would demand, and making an example out of him is certainly going to generate more funds for the general's coffers than he would ever get out of a teenager from Trenton."

"So, he's in big trouble," I said, summing it up.

"Diplomacy is not this rep's area of expertise," Ranger agreed. "They're sending a shooter."

"And it's safe to say his crew will suffer and die with him," I said, following the thought through to conclusion.

"If these boys are old enough to act like players, they figure they're old enough to die like players. You have to realize these gangsters didn't grow up in the Burg, or even places as benign as Newark. They grew up in Latin American hell holes. There is no comparison for values such as right and wrong with these guys. This guy is going to cut them into pieces, literally."

"Do you know where I can find Varela and Pavia?"

"No," Ranger said, producing an envelope with ten wallet sized photos taken with a cell phone. "This is Varela and some of his crew. Their street names are on the back of the photos. That's all I know."

I looked again at Hector, expectantly. "Does Hector have anything to tell me?"

"No. He's here so we don't get shot for trespassing."

"Snipers?"

"Ten, twelve, and three o'clock," Ranger said.

I carefully scanned the area, keeping my hat low over my eyes. He was right. There were rifles on the rooftops and through the camera I could make out a shooter with a scope ½ mile away.

"Rather militant around here," I commented, pretending to snap off a few more pictures.

Hector said something, and Ranger nodded.

"Take the money out of your jacket pocket and make a show of paying Hector."

I did what he said, shaking Hector's hand and watching him pocket the money as smoothly as any pick pocket I had ever seen. I quickly felt for my wallet and cell phone. They were still there, and I got a hell of a look from Ranger for checking. Hector just smiled. Apparently he enjoyed knowing that he made me nervous.

We turned and walked back to the Cayenne and drove back to RangeMan. Hector disappeared into the elevator while Ranger walked me back to my SUV.

"When you finally decide on a place, you're going to need security," he said.

"No." All I needed was Ranger wiring who knows what kind of surveillance into my own building!

"No?" he asked, feigning surprise.

"You're not securing _my_ place," I assured him. "I'll take care of security myself."

"Do you know how?" he asked smugly.

"I know how to wire up cameras," I said.

"And you also know how to set up a computer monitoring station with back up power generators and remote keyless entry?"

I groaned. "I don't trust you," I said.

"Do you know anyone else who you _can_ trust?"

I groaned again, paced a little, and glared back at Ranger. "Just for the sake of argument, how much?"

"You let me know when you're ready, and I'll send Hector to install everything you need on account," he said.

"No account. How much?" I asked again. I knew better that to ever owe a mercenary.

"RangeMan buys wholesale," he said. "How about cost plus ten percent, and I'll throw in the labor free as long as you help." He was essentially offering me a free training course on espionage. I'd be an idiot to pass that up. After all, I liked to keep my friends close and my enemies closer. Besides, this way I could keep an eye on Hector...make sure he only wired in the security _I_ wanted.

"Deal," I said grudgingly. We shook on it. "And nothing is on account, Manoso."

"Understood."

He held tight to my hand, pulling me close and looking me right in the eye. "Marry her, and it's forever. No more consoling yourself when the going gets rough. No more Terry. And if you ever pull a Dickie on her…"

"I know, I won't live to regret it," I said, trying to lighten up the dark stare I was getting.

"Oh, you'll live to regret it, but only long enough," he breathed the unmistakable threat without a waiver in his voice. "And God help you if she finds out about it. You break her heart and I'll let you live a little longer for each tear that falls." This time, I believed him.

I returned the icy stare. "And as for you, no more poaching. She's off limits to you."

"Once the ring is officially on her finger," he said in partial agreement. "But not before."

My stomach acid caused a sudden pain to cross my face. Ranger let me go.

"You better let that beast free before it kills you," he warned.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You haven't been Morelli since you came back to the force after killing Kulesza."

"I'm not haunted by Kulesza. He pulled a gun on me."

"You shot him point blank in the face with a .45 hydroshock," he said.

"Yes, thank you. I remember."

"Even when you were on the run, you were the Morelli I knew, but after that…when you were cleared to return to the force, you changed. You have something to lose now, and something to fear, and it's destroying you."

"You mean Stephanie?"

"No, I don't mean Stephanie. She's made a pretty believable scapegoat, but the real problem is that you're afraid of yourself…now that you know what you're capable of."

"I have always known what I'm capable of," I said. "Kulesza was not the first man I've shot."

This just got me a doubtful look as another stab of pain etched it's way across my face. "I don't suppose you know a good gastroenterologist?" I asked, trying to laugh it off.

"Never needed one," Ranger said seriously, turning his back on me and walking away.

_To be continued..._


	23. Chapter 23 On The Run

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

I returned to the station to file a report on the information I got from my "anonymous tip", and was greeted by an e-mail informing me that I was scheduled to appear in court in the morning to give testimony against the drunk son whose father had him arrested. I groaned. Pendersmythe, the rookie who brought him in, should have been there. Apparently he had suddenly decided to quit the force. Just as well, I thought. He wasn't cut out for it.

An hour later, I was walking in the door of my house. I fell into my recliner and looked around. I was exhausted, and my mind was filled with unresolved noise. The house was quiet and peaceful. I breathed deep and tried to relax.

The house had belonged to my Aunt Rose and Uncle Sallie. They bought it when they were first married. They had lived and died here. I inherited it from Aunt Rose when she passed on at eighty-three. She had survived Uncle Sal by ten years. My sister got the furniture, so the house didn't look the way I remembered it anymore. I'd thought about selling it, but decided it felt like home, so I fixed it up. I had added a half bath downstairs, refinished the floors, and updated the kitchen fixtures. I'd always had it in the back of my mind that someday I would actually _want_ to have a family here. Somehow, I would settle down and be content. I thought it would just happen. But somehow, it never did.

I looked at Aunt Rose's faded old floral curtains and wall paper. I used to think that Steph would take over the house and start decorating. I wanted her to make it _our_ home. I had imagined that after we were married, I would come home from the station and find a huge furniture delivery truck replacing every stick of furniture I owned with all new furniture that had maxed out all my charge cards. And I thought even that would have been okay. But every time Steph and I played house, I freaked out. Well, we both did. It just wasn't us.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Steph had never even decorated her own apartment. It was bare of pictures on the walls. She'd never painted over the ugly colors, and the furniture was barely functional. Her appliances certainly had not been chosen with aesthetics in mind. I had initially chalked it up to her lack of funds or her feeling that the apartment was only temporary, but there was more to it. Stephanie existed almost exclusively outside of her living quarters. She wasn't a homemaker.

I never made it upstairs to bed. I fell asleep in the recliner, thinking.

I dreamed that I was running. Then I realized I was chasing Steph. My feet were heavy, almost like I was dragging them behind me. Then I lunged and had her pinned, but she flipped me over and was hitting me hard in the gut and kicking me with her knees like a little girl, aiming for my groin and barely missing. Then an unsettling weight fell on me and I couldn't breathe. I saw Ranger pulling her back away from me. She was looking down at me with tears in her eyes like she was saying goodbye.

I woke with a start, gasping for air, unable to breathe. Then I realized why.

"Get down!" I yelled at Bob, who had climbed up into the recliner with me. Bob jumped up and finally managed to tag me square in the nuts as he jumped down.

Slowly, and painfully, I got to my feet and realized I had no shoes on. I'd had sneakers on when I got home. I looked around and saw what was left of my sneakers sitting on what was left of the couch cushions.

"Bob!" I yelled, followed by a long line of expletives.

For a minute, I wondered how I ever got into this mess with Bob, but then I remembered. Stephanie. Brian Simon, a fellow cop, had talked her into Bob-sitting and then refused to take him back. By now, we all knew why.

Brian Simon owed me big right now, and I decided the time had come to collect. I called Steph. She was at her parent's house, but she was more than ready to go back to her apartment. The fear factor only lasts a couple of days, especially when she's staying with her family.

I assured her that it would be okay to go home. Then I called Brian Simon and explained to him that he'd just volunteered to man the monitors for the night. I drove over, checked out Steph's apartment, and set Simon up in the parking lot with the monitoring system.

I made a few more calls and created a schedule. Between me, Mooch, Gazzara, Costanza, Big Dog, Simon, and me again, we had the week covered. That was the plan for as long as it took to keep Ranger and the bad guys out of her life, or at least her apartment. I was going to get a handle on the situation once and for all. I was going to keep her safe - no one else.

I went back home. It was late. I fell into a fitful sleep and was awakened at 2:30 a.m. by Patrolman Barna. Apparently Brian Simons had passed his duty off on the rookie. Simons had always been a weasel, but this time I was going to kill him.

Barna said he thought someone was in Stephanie's apartment. He didn't know what he should do. I grabbed my cell, keeping Barna on my land line, and called Steph, waking her up.

"Cupcake, are you okay?"

"Joe?" she asked sleepily.

I was still dressed, so I dug out an old pair of shoes and was lacing them up, about to run out the door.

"I'm sorry I woke you. I had a bad dream about you, and I just had to know you were okay." I wasn't really lying much.

"I'm fine." She groaned. "It's the middle of the night."

"I know." I paused, then decided I had no choice. "Where's your gun?"

"Right here on my night stand."

"Is it loaded?"

"Yes, why?"

"That makes me feel a lot better."

I got in the car and she heard me start the motor.

"Joe, what's going on?" She was alert now.

"I don't know. I just have a bad feeling. Stay in your bedroom, hold onto your gun, and wait for me to get over there."

"You're not coming over here in the middle of the night expecting…"

"No, Cupcake. It's nothing like that."

"Oh," she said, and I could hear her reaching for the gun on her nightstand.

I raced across the Burg, keeping her on the phone. When I got to the apartment building, I parked at the door and raced up the stairs. I told her I was at the door, and she let me in. There was no sign that anyone had been in her apartment, but I checked it out twice anyway.

"Satisfied?" she asked, thinking it was funny now that she wasn't in any danger.

"I guess," I said. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"You sure got here fast," she said as she walked me to the door. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah. I'm sure. It was just a funny feeling, but it's gone now." I kissed her goodnight and called Barna to have him meet me a block away.

"I know what I heard," he insisted. "Someone was in the living room. I wasn't sure, but then the mouse stopped running on his wheel, and I could hear someone's clothes making a whispery sound as they walked, and I heard soft footsteps. It wasn't Stephanie. She was snoring a little bit."

"Well, there's no one there now but the hampster," I said. The door had been locked and the security chain had been in place. I had checked everywhere in that little apartment. "You didn't hear anyone talking?"

"No. Nothing else."

"Okay. You want me to take over."

"No, it's okay. You look beat. I can stay with it till daylight."

"Thanks," I said, relieved at the thought of even a few hours sleep. I went home and laid down for a few hours, finally sleeping good when the alarm went off. I showered, shaved, got dressed, took care of Bob, and was back at the station where Barna gave me back the monitoring receiver.

Then I went to my office and called Brian Simon's house. I'd seen him leave the station a few minutes before, so I knew he was on patrol right now. His wife answered, and I asked her to give Brian my best wishes for a speedy recovery because I knew how awful it was to be laid up. She thought I had the wrong number, so I assured her I worked with Brian at the station. I told her he hadn't been in for a few days and we were all worried about him since he'd so rarely missed work in the past. She was confused for a second, and then the anger hit. She was tight lipped as she thanked me for calling, assuring me she would pass it on…probably with a rolling pin.

That done, I headed off for court. The hearing went smoothly at first, with the judge making sure the young man had a clear understanding of why he had been arrested and the charges against him. He'd been released without bond, but now the Judge ordered him to pay $100 for court costs and incidentals. At hearing this, the boy's father started screaming in Portuguese. The Judge ordered him to speak English. The man pointed his finger at me, saying that I had promised him it would not cost him anything to have his son arrested. He kept saying that he had been assured it was okay to have his son sobered up in jail.

The Judge turned to me. "Well, what about it?" he asked.

"Your Honor, I explained that I couldn't arrest the boy unless he signed a warrant since I hadn't seen him do anything illegal. He didn't want to sign the warrant, which I told him was free, so he let his son go, and I then witnessed him making threats and acting out. I arrested him. When he asked me how much it would cost to have him arrested, I assured him it didn't cost anything to have him arrested. I never told him that the boy wouldn't have to face charges for disorderly conduct and we did not discuss whether fines or bonds would be imposed by the court."

The judge tried to explain it to the man, but he was having none of it, and ended up cussing the Judge, who then found him in contempt of court. The son went to screaming at the Judge next, and they were both hauled off to the pokey. All this over a $100 slap on the wrist.

I groaned. Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed. I really hated this part of being a cop. I hated being made out to be a bad guy and I really hated babysitting, which was my assignment for the day. I was supposed to stick to Barna, who I knew was working with no sleep, thanks to me.

So, dropped my SUV back at the station and called Barna to pick me up. We rode together, taking a few calls, stopping a few speeders and writing a couple parking tickets. Knowing the Chief was counting on me to be solving the murder cases at the same time was weighing heavily on my mind. I finally gave in to the pressure.

"It's almost three." I said. "Let's cruise over to Central High. There are a couple of kids I need to be keeping an eye on." I didn't offer any details, and Barna didn't ask.

When we got there, a line of buses were already in place. I scanned the numbers and found Sally's. I watched and waited, and was rewarded by the sight of Lucas and Joe dashing from the school onto the bus. Another group of boys came out behind them, laughing and taunting them, throwing books from a book bag at the bus windows and trying the door to the bus.

Sally got off the bus. I held my breath, expecting him to be brandishing his Uzi, but he was unarmed. Sally was well over six feet tall and rather hairy, which made him an imposing figure. He grabbed the two boys closest to him by the back of their necks and walked them over to the books that were lying under his bus. He bent them over and made them pick up all the books, return them to the book bag, and then he marched them onto the bus, where I presume they were apologizing and returning the books. Then they were booted off the bus, which took off in a cloud of black smoke.

"Wow, that was impressive," Barna said.

"You should hear him sing," I said, laughing.

"We followed at a distance, and watched as all of the kids were let off. The last stop was the boy's home. The same crowd of boys were waiting on the stoop that had been there the last time I visited. The bus stopped and Joe and Lucas stood up. I noticed they were carrying fast food cups as they walked down the aisle, but they tossed them before they got off the bus. Sally fed them dinner before letting them off the bus. They exchanged a few words with Sally, the doors opened, and the boys walked soberly towards to house.

I watched with bated breath as they approached the group of Hispanic and white boys. They exchanged words, and it appeared they were going to let Lucas in the house but not Joe. More words, some pushing, and then some shouting took place.

The doors to the bus opened, and Sally ushered his charges back on board. They took off, and we followed. He he dropped them at a local library. Sally had places to be, I figured, so he took off, but not before he had called Stephanie. She appeared a few minutes later, a passenger in Lula's red Firebird.

I rang Stephanie's cell phone as she was getting out.

"I've got your back," I told her.

"Joe? Where are you?"

"Close. I've been following the boys," I told her. "Look, I need to know exactly where I can find Lino Pavia and Dimas Varela. I think Lucas may know. He's my only lead, and it's life or death, Cupcake." I didn't have time to fill her in on all the details, but I added, "Lino and Dimas have been marked for retribution by MS-13, and it's as serious as it gets. Those boys don't know what's coming. I have to find them, _now_."

"No pressure," she sighed.

"I know you can do it, whatever it takes." I closed my phone and sat back, waiting.

Steph and Lula went into the library. They returned to the car about twenty minutes later with both boys in tow. A text message flashed on my phone. _When Lula flashes her brakes three times, pull us over._

I relayed the information to Barna, and we followed Lula as they drove through a Cluck in a Bucket and then down Hamilton, past a group of guys hanging out by a pool hall. Music was blaring from a car parked on the street, and a couple guys were showing off their dance moves. A few girls were standing around checking them out.

Lula flashed her brakes, and we hit the lights siren and pulled them over just across the street from the action. Barna and I both got out and walked as official-like as we could up to the vehicle. I took the passenger side so I could talk to Stephanie.

"Now what?" I asked, my hand on my gun, making a show.

"I need you to arrest the boys," she said.

"What for?" I asked, confused.

"So everyone can see them being run in and so they can go to back to Juvie. They hate it in that house. They feel safer in the lock up."

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And what am I supposed to charge them with?" I asked, having no intention of going through with this.

"How about stealing a car?"

"What car?" I asked.

"This one," she said, indicating the red Firebird.

"I'm not falsifying a report against these boys. Giving them a more extensive criminal record is not helping them."

"I'm not sure they'll have a life to ruin if we don't help them _right now_," Steph said.

"This is nuts. I'm not doing this," I told her.

"You have to," she insisted. "They won't talk until you arrest them."

"Oh yeah?" I said, with every intent of making them talk.

"You have to," Steph insisted. "You told me to get the information, and that's what I'm doing."

"I didn't tell you to make that kind of deal, did I?"

"You have to arrest them."

"No, I don't."

Steph and Lula both got out of the car, and quick as a flash, Lucas jumped into the driver's seat. The car was still running. He hit the gas and took off.

"Now you do," Lula said, hands on her hips. I could feel my eyes grow wide and my mouth fell open. "Well, don't just stand there gawking! Go get me my car!" Lula hollered.

"You two are certifiably nuts!" I shouted, running back to the patrol car. I got behind the wheel, and Barna leapt into the passenger seat.

We were in a high speed chase on the freeway before I had a chance to stop it. Costanza and Big Dog were with us as well as a couple Sheriff's officers and a State Trooper. This was out of my hands.

I ordered the boys to stop over the PA but they weren't stopping. There were spike strips ahead, and all I could do was watch as the tires blew, the car shimmied and swerved, and the boys hit the concrete barrier with the driver's side, scraping along with sparks flying until the car skidded to a stop some 100 feet down the road. The driver's side of Lula's Firebird was nearly shaved away. I ordered an ambulance immediately, and jumped out of the car, running to the crash. I pulled a stunned but defiant Joe out of the passenger seat. He hadn't been wearing his seat belt and had hit his head on the windshield, bubbling it out. He was bleeding from a broken nose and split eyebrow, but he was talking, which was good. Lucas was pinned in the driver's seat. He'd hit his head on the side window, breaking it out, and he'd been hit hard in the chest by the steering wheel. He was awake, but had a concussion and was a little slow on the uptake.

His foot was freed by the State Trooper with the use of a pry bar. His left foot was broken, and he had multiple cuts and bruises on his face and left arm. Both boys were transported by ambulance to the local hospital where they would remain under guard until proper charges could be filed.

Once that the adrenaline started dying down, anger began flooding me. _What were those girls thinking?_

I called Stephanie to find out where they were. Fortuantely, Gazzara heard the whole thing on the radio and had picked them up and they were already headed to the scene. I told them to meet me at the station. The girls had a lot of explaining to do, and now, thanks to them, I had a lot of forms to fill out.

_To be continued..._

_Please let me know if you guys are still into this story or not. I still have a long way to go...we're only about half done. Let me know what you think! Thanks! -Autumn_


	24. Chapter 24 Steph's POV Morelli's Office

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

Lula and I were sitting silently in the back of Eddie Gazzara's black and white, on our way to the station. We had been listening to the squawking on the police radio, and had breathed a collective sigh of relief when we heard Lucas and Joe were alive and on their way to the hospital. Only then did Lula start crying over the loss of yet another Firebird.

Eddie had been asked to bring us to Morelli's office to wait for him. I could already see Morelli's cop face in my mind. If I had a choice, I thought I would rather have it out with the Italian boyfriend side of Morelli. I was afraid the clinical, silent, and emotionally absent Morelli was too difficult for me to deal just then.

Gazarra pulled into the parking lot and walked us up the steps and down the hall to Morelli's office. The door still read "Detective Morelli", but the inside of the office looked forlorn and neglected.

Lula and I sank into the two guest chairs facing the desk to wait. Gazzara excused himself and closed the door behind him.

"We're in the shit now," Lula said, fidgeting nervously in her seat. Lula hated police stations, having spent some time on the inside during her stint as a hooker in her former life. "What do you think Morelli's gonna do to us?"

"No idea," I said with a grimace.

"But it's not going to be good, right?"

"Nope. Not good."

"So, what's our story?" she asked in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

"What story?"

"Our cover story. Our alibi. We gotta make sure our stories match in case he wants to question us separately. Cops like to do that."

"Lula, Morelli was right there. He saw the whole thing."

"Well, yeah, but we didn't know those boys were gonna take off with my car and drive it 100 miles per hour down the freeway, did we? They were only supposed to go a few blocks and stop so Morelli could arrest them. Right?"

I groaned. "Yeah," I said. "Tell him that."

"You don't think I should?"

"No!"

"I thought you trusted Morelli."

"I do trust Morelli," I said, realizing it was true. "But he can't do his job _and_ protect us if we're telling him stuff that he doesn't want to know about."

"So, he can't protect us if we go spillin' our guts." Lula repeated, processing this info.

"Right, so keep quiet and let me do the talking," I said.

"You're the boss."

The door to the office opened, and Morelli entered like a hurricane, tossing papers, cuffs, badge, gun, and even his uniform shirt and vest onto the desk top. Morelli was not in cop mode, and I suddenly heard my mother's voice in the back of my head reminding me to be careful what I wished for. This was Morelli the Italian boyfriend.

Morelli paced behind his desk for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts or trying to get calm enough to speak. I wasn't sure which. Finally, he placed both hands flat on the desk, apparently to keep from reaching out and strangling me. He leaned over the desk towards me. Morelli's brown eyes had darkened to black, smoldering with fire. His thick, black hair fell over his forehead and tangled with his lashes. My eyes traveled down his face to his shadowy beard and the line of his lips, tight with forced control. His breath was ragged. Boy, he was damn sexy. If only circumstances were different, I thought.

"What – was – that?" he asked, still angry and barely composed.

I grimaced and sank even lower into my seat. Lula had a death grip on the arm rests of her chair, ready to dive out of the way if Morelli lunged at me.

"Uh, we were just trying to help," I stammered, bracing for a windy return.

"Help? Help?" He threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Hey! It's not her fault," Lula barked.

"No?" Morelli barked back. "Tell me, whose fault is it? Who owns that car? Who was driving? Who exited the vehicle while it was running and left the keys in it?"

Lula scrunched down into her seat.

"Me?" she squealed.

"You!" Morelli yelled. "And you!" he added, pointing a finger at me. "You had this planned, didn't you? Those boys fed you a line and you swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. I'll bet they told you they were only going to take the car a few blocks and stop, right? Right?" The force of Morelli's glare squeezed our consciences.

"That was the deal, honest!" Lula cried. "Those boys _lied_ to us!"

"Oh! My! What a surprise!" Morelli said mockingly. "They were such nice boys when they blew up Stephanie's car the other day and threatend to kill me," he said, feigning shock and surprise.

"Say what?" Lula's head whipped around and she stared at me with her eyes bugging out. "Don't you tell me those are the same guys who torched your car at the button factory."

I shrugged. "Well, yeah. I mean no. Not exactly," I stammered.

"Friends of theirs?" she asked, eyebrows raised in anger.

"Not exactly," I said.

"Enough!" Morelli shouted, calling us back to the issue at hand. "Thanks to you two, I have two juveniles in the hospital awaiting charges." He sank down into his seat on the other side of the desk and buried his face in his hands. "I can't believe I have to ask you this," he groaned under his breath. He raised his face and addressed Lula. "Do you want to press charges against Lucas Berne and Joe Johnson for grand theft auto?"

"Damn skippy!" Lula replied. "And Steph too, for her car."

"There are no witnesses to Steph's fiery inferno, but Barna and I are witnesses to your case."

"Good!" Lula said, sensing a sure victory in court.

"No! It's not good!" Morelli yelled, pounding his fist on the desk for emphasis.

"That's what those boys said they wanted," Lula said defensively.

"They were lying, remember? It was all a lie. They don't want to go to Juvie. They just wanted your car."

"You don't know that," Lula said. "Steph made a deal with them."

Morelli put his head back in his hands, rubbing his temples. "So I heard."

"You listen here, Mister. You told her to do whatever it took to get information out of those boys because it was a matter of life and death that you find those two gang bangers," Lula reminded him.

"I didn't mean _anything_," Morelli groaned. "I meant pay them, blackmail them, take them shopping. I didn't mean for you to assist them in committing a felony!"

"It didn't seem all that crazy at the time," Lula whined.

I was still sinking down in my chair.

"Do they know anything?" Morelli asked me.

"As scared as they are, I'd say yes. My gut is telling me these two are winning lottery tickets."

Morelli's cop face slid into place as he studied my face.

"Okay, lets go visit those boys."

_To be continued..._


	25. Chapter 25 Steph Hospital Visit

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

We had no sooner walked into St. Francis Hospital than I ran into my old friend Julie Wisneski in the lobby. She was a nurse and had transferred from Helene Fuld several years ago. I hadn't seen her since my sister Valerie had delivered baby Lisa.

"Hey, girl!" she called to me. "You visiting more of Ranger's men?" she asked with a laugh. I'd forgotten about Cal, the Stegosaurus of a man who was acting as my bodyguard, bouncing his head off the floor when Valerie's water broke all over him. When he'd caught sight of a little foot sticking out, that was all she wrote. Baby Lisa had been in kind of a hurry to get here.

"No." I said, smiling but not laughing. "We're here to see two boys who stole Lula's car. They wiped out on the interstate. Do you know where we can find them?"

Julie checked with admissions and then showed us the way to the secured room where the boys were being monitored. Barna was guarding the door, sitting half asleep in a very uncomfortable looking plastic chair he'd borrowed from the waiting room down the hall.

Joe reached out and patted Barna on the shoulder. "Hanging in there, buddy?"

"Sure, I'm okay," Barna said, giving Morelli a weak smile.

"We're going to have a few words with our friends. Why don't you get some coffee and walk around a little. Relief will be here in an hour."

"Thanks," he said, stretching and yawning. He picked up his empty coffee cup and jingled some coins in his pocket as he headed down the hall to the waiting room, stopping at the snack machine.

"He's a pretty nice guy?" I asked Morelli.

"Yeah," he said. "His skills still need some work, but he's trying hard." I could see Morelli had taken him under his wing.

Morelli opened the door to the room, and Lula and I followed him in. The boys were wearing hospital gowns, lying in their beds watching Hell Date on BET. Morelli shut off the television and stood very cop-like at the foot the Lucas's bed, hands on hips, glaring down at them, studying their faces.

Lula and I were hovering just inside the door. Morelli pointed for us to take the two guest chairs along the wall under the television. We sat down facing the boys and behind Morelli, keeping silent.

"I have informed Lula of her rights regarding the recovery of her vehicle and damages due her under the law," Morelli began. "She has stated her desire to press full charges against you both." Morelli paused, gauging their responses before going on. "The full list of charges will be presented to you by the Judge at your arraignment. It's been scheduled for 9:30 a.m. tomorrow morning." Under his breath Morelli added, "It'll probably take me that long just to write them all up."

Lucas looked over at Joe, who was busy giving Morelli a cold, hard stare. Joe crossed his arms over his chest and kept looking tough. Lucas turned back to Morelli, squinty eyed. He seemed to know Joe was about to start bargaining, and he was still waiting, still hoping, that things weren't as bad as they seemed.

"What kind of deal are you making?" Lucas asked.

"We don't deal with no cops," Joe said loudly. To him it was a matter of principle.

"What do you have to offer?" Morelli asked, crossing his own arms and staring back at Lucas.

"Nothing," Joe said.

"What do you want?" Lucas asked. His foot was elevated and wrapped in ace bandages, but it not yet in a cast. He also had bandages around his chest. He'd surely broken a few ribs. He'd been given plenty of pain meds and was a feeling a little bit mellow.

"What do you want?" Morelli asked. He was an old hand at making deals like this, and I knew he wanted to do what he could to get the boys out of this mess. But they didn't know it.

"Don't matter what he promises," Joe said. "He'll just tell you he'll try, but he'll walk out of here and forget he ever saw us." He lifted a leg and let one rip, fanning the fart towards us with his hand. "Told you, we don't do business with no cops."

Morelli didn't look shocked or offended. But Lula'd had enough. She came up out of her chair, marched over to Joe and cuffed him on the ear.

"Boy! What's the matter with you?" She cuffed him again and he uncrossed his arms so he could try to fend her off. "Don't you know Morelli is the only one who can save your dumb butt? You tell that man what he wants to know or I'll press every charge I can think of and maybe I'll even make up some."

"Damn, woman! Chill!" Joe said, fending off another smack.

"Lula, sit down," Morelli commanded.

"You're just lucky Morelli's here right now. If I had you alone…well, you'd need more than a doctor when I got through with you." Lula shuffled back to her seat muttering to herself, "Lie to me, steal my car and then fart at me, boy. I don't think so…"

Morelli gave me a look that said I'd better keep Lula under control. I tried to rub her back to calm her down, but she was fidgeting too much.

"You want Jacob Stanton out of the picture. You want your stay in Juvie to be as short as possible. And you want to finish school or you're never going to escape this gangland nightmare," Morelli said matter of factly.

"And you got no power over any of it," Joe said. "So, what's it to ya?"

"I already told you. My cousin has offered to take the House Monster job, if it were vacant. You could help us bring about that vacancy." Morelli pulled out his notebook and opened it, clicking his pen. "You've already told me he's dirty. I need names. I need to know what he's doing, who he's doing it with, and how they're laundering the money. I'll bring him down," Morelli promised. "And when I do, he won't be back."

"Someone else just like him will take his place. Your cousin ain't gettin' in. It's all business, man." Joe complained.

"My cousin, Mooch, _will_ take his place."

"How do you know?" Lucas asked, looking almost eager.

"We have connections," he said, looking back at me. I couldn't imagine what connections he was referring to, but I smiled back at the boys encouragingly anyway. Maybe Joe really did know how we were going to pull it off. And maybe if I crossed my fingers while I smiled, it wasn't really fibbing. Yeah, right.

The boys looked at each other for a few beats, then Joe turned back to Morelli. "Doesn't matter to us since we won't be going back, does it?"

"Oh, you'll be going back," Morelli assured him.

"How?"

"Lucas, I know you know Lino Pavia. You know where I can find him. If I don't, he's dead within the week. Do you understand me?"

"Dead?" Lucas said, his eyes opening a little wider.

"Dead." Morelli confirmed. "I need you to help me save his life."

Lucas suddenly smiled over at Joe. "Dead," he repeated.

"You look like you're glad to hear it," Morelli noticed. "I take it you're not exactly friends."

"He's the best painter out there. Without him around hogging all the glory, I have a better chance to make a name for myself."

"You're a serious artist?" Morelli asked. "I haven't seen your work around town."

"Yeah, because it all gets gone over by the gangs and professional crews. Besides, I can't afford to put up a real piece." Then he added with a sardonic grin, "But hey, we're listed in all the finest break rooms in town."

"Hey!" Joe said. "That's not how it's going to be. We got plans."

"What kind of plans?"

"We found us a Heaven spot so good they'll never take it down."

Morelli looked concerned. "What's a Heaven spot?" I asked.

"Someplace so hard to reach and so dangerous to paint that the other crews won't touch it," Morelli said.

"S'right," Joe said proudly. "That's where we'll make a name. Then we'll start getting paying gigs and we'll be legit. And we won't need your school for that."

"You can die doing that."

"Then all this won't matter, then, will it?"

"I don't believe this! You'd let Lino Pavia and his whole crew die just to narrow down the competition?" I asked, not believing how flip they were being.

"Yeah," they both said in unison, clearly not bothered by the thought.

Lula and I got up from our seats. "Deal's off!" I said, pulling Lula behind me. "And I thought everyone was wrong about you guys. But you're scum!"

"Hey, baby! Don't let the door hit you in the…" Lucas started to say, but his voice stopped suddenly and was replaced by a choking sound.

I spun around to see Morelli pressing his index finger almost gently into the bandage wrapped around Lucas's chest. Lucas was gasping in pain, paralyzed, unable to even swat Morelli's hand away.

"You're not very smart," Morelli said. "And I'm betting you're going to be a favorite in Juvie, since you're so vulnerable and all. Nice hair, by the way."

"Yeah, you'll make someone a right nice girlfriend," Lula chimed in.

Morelli removed his finger and Joe and Lucas both seemed to be breathing better.

"Can you really keep us out of Juvie?" Lucas asked, his eyes swimming in tears, presumably from the pain.

"Joe's right. I can try, but I can't promise." He pulled a tissue from a dispenser on the rolling table nearby and handed it to Lucas. "I can tell you that your chances will be dramatically improved if I can tell the Judge that you're cooperating with me on at least two cases and that the auto theft was a misunderstanding and that Lula is not pressing charges."

Lucas looked at Lula.

"You two don't look like you can afford to buy me a new Firebird anyway," Lula said. "You tell Morelli how to save that boy's life, or I'll get me a new Firebird with the insurance money, and I'll make sure you're able to reach that Heaven spot. I'll run right over your scrawny butts!"

"First things first," Morelli said. "What is Stanton into?"

Joe rolled his eyes at Morelli. "What do ya think? Drugs and guns. Guns and drugs. What they're all into."

"What's his role?"

"He's storing guns for LBJ, or he was."

"LBJ?" I asked. The only LBJ I knew of was the former U.S. President.

"Lionel Boone, Jr." Lula said.

"What do you mean, was?" I asked.

"He got popped," Joe said with a shrug. "Don't know who the House Monster is dealing with now. Probably LBJ's old man."

"What about the drugs?" Morelli asked.

"He recruits the boys to do the dirty work. That's why two gangs. He's working both sides of the street. And they're all underage. Then too he's got deniability. No one really expects him to be able to control us."

"But he is?"

"Oh yeah."

"How?"

"Drugs. Got everyone hooked."

"What about you guys?"

"We only touch the weed. Nothing else. But we gotta do quite a lot of it to stay cool with him, and he makes us pay him for it. He's built up an army and since we won't pledge allegiance and we won't sell his dope for him, we're the enemy. At least, till we're 18. Once you turn 18, he bounces you from the house and you _can't_ come back."

"Why?" I asked.

"He's got not use for anyone who can face real charges. They might turn squealer on him."

I saw Morelli's hand glide over the edge of his vest, and I knew what he was thinking. There was no death penalty for underage cop killers. And what the Trenton underground was selling as commodities these days was drugs, guns, and cop killers. They were using kids for the first two, so why not the last.

"How are they moving the drugs?" Morelli asked, pulling his thoughts back from the brink.

"Spray cans." Lucas said. "The paint crews meet on the street and swap hollowed out cans."

"What are the markers?"

"Green for cash, white for hard stuff, brown for weed and wet-daddies, black for crack, meth, and the other baked goods."

"And they're trading while they're painting? Any other time?"

"Sure, can be anytime, but for sure when they're painting."

"Is this how you know Lino Pavia and Dimas Varela?" he pressed. I could feel his excitement building. We might be close to something big.

"Sure."

"Did you ever carry drugs for Stanton?" Morelli asked Lucas directly.

He shrugged, unsure if he should answer.

"They can't take you in for it now, and beside, Morelli didn't read you your rights," Lula said.

"They're currently under arrest, and I read them their rights at the crash scene," Morelli said, giving Lula a look.

"Oh," Lula said, backing down. "Well, you better tell him anyway," Lula told Lucas.

"It's okay for you to tell me," Morelli assured him.

"A few times, yeah," Lucas admitted. "Just weed."

"What do you know about Varela?"

"Pavia said he's not really connected. He's working for some guy named Smelly Sanders."

"Stinky Sanders," I said, correcting him.

"Whatever."

"Pavia is working for Sanders?" Morelli turned and started open mouthed at me. "How? How is it that you're always in the middle of things? How does this happen?"

I shrugged and tried to smile, but I was as perplexed at this turn of events as he was. "Just lucky I guess."

_To be continued…_


	26. Chapter 26 Steph's POV Puzzle Pieces

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

When we walked out of the hospital room, I was surprised to see Mickey Maglio from the violent crimes unit sitting in the chair instead of Barna. Mickey and Morelli exchanged cop greetings. I turned to go back down the hall the way we had come, but Morelli went the other way, so Lula and I had to double back. Actually, Lula got sidetracked by the snack machine.

Morelli stopped in front of another room at the end of the hall, looking in the glass window of the dimly lit room. I peeked over his shoulder at Benny Gaspick lying in a hospital bed with tubes and wires sticking out of him. He was still breathing on a respirator and the sound of it sucking and clicking in time with the rise and fall of his chest just about made me sick.

"He looks really bad," I whispered, although I doubt he could hear me. He was surely heavily sedated. Just looking at him made me wish I was.

Morelli let out an ironic little laugh. "Funny," he said. "I thought he was looking great." I squeezed his arm and he pressed my hand with his. "He's going to make it, Cupcake." It was more a wish than a statement of fact, and we both knew it. Gaspick was a long way from well.

"You'll get the guys who did this," I said.

"We'll get them," he said, wrapping an arm around me.

Morelli dropped Lula at the office. Connie had offered to drive Lula home if she actually did some of work she was being paid for. Morelli and I headed back to his office at the cop shop.

While Morelli was drawing up the necessary paperwork for the arraignment, I was assigned the task of thumbing through a stack of photocopies Morelli had made that were stuffed into a cardboard filing box. They were the daily reports for the four cops who had been shot.

Most of the paperwork consisted of repetitious reports made on traffic accidents, speeding tickets, and other assorted Trentonian faux-pas such as public urination and whacking off in the Multiplex. As I filed that one back I felt a little guilty. I hadn't thought about Melvin Pickle in ages. I wondered how the little pervert was doing. He was one of the few FTA's I'd actually brought in on my own.

As I scanned the police reports, I was running through the facts in my mind. Item one. The first cop killed was Richard Kruselli, Julia Kruselli's son. She was yet another Burg gossip that often called my mother to tell on me whenever she heard a rumor about me, regardless of whether I was guilty or not. I didn't know Richard. He was quite a bit older than Morelli and me.

A few days later, William Roice was killed. Then Bob Grossman. Bob had once done a surveillance job for Morelli, but I guess they were more acquaintances than friends. Still, I knew this one had upset Morelli more than the others. I think he really identified with Grossman.

The first three were all killed with 9mm rounds.

Then it got weirder with Little J. and Benny Gaspick. Little J was shot with a .22 and Gaspick with an AR-15 semi-auto firing .223 Remington's.

It stood to reason that if there was a link between these guys, it was established prior to the killings. I put the reports in date order, ignoring who the reporting officer was. Then I started looking for any repeats. I didn't come up with anything, and my eyes were getting heavier and heavier.

Morelli finished his reports and stood to stretch and I pushed the box away. Morelli offered me a hand and pulled me up from the floor where I had been sitting. We walked out to the reception desk. Andy Diller was on. He gave us a smile as we both sniffed out coffee and doughnuts like a couple old pros.

We each made a couple calls on our cell phones. I called my mother to tell her I wouldn't be able to make dinner. I hadn't promised anything, but in light of recent events, it was smart to cover my bases. Morelli called Bell asked him to join him in the morning before the arraignment.

When we had both exhausted our small talk, we went back into Morelli's office and shut the door.

"Okay," he said, pulling one chair up to the side of his desk for me to sit near him. "Let's see if we have a picture developing here." He had a piece of paper on the desk and was drawing a few circles and lines. "We have four cops shot with intent to kill." He wrote their names in four circles at the top of the page.

Then he made two boxes at the bottom of the page where he listed Varela and Pavia in one box and Joe and Lucas in the other.

"Okay," I said, catching on. "Let's connect the dots. Stanton, the House Monster, is Lucas' and Joe's connection to the drugs and guns and money, right?"

"Right," Morelli said, writing Stanton's name in a box above Lucas and Joe. "And he's storing weapons for Lionel Boone." He wrote Boone's name in a box above Stanton.

"Okay, we know that Stinky is working for Boone, now, right?"

"That's the story I've heard, but it's hard to say. They used to be rivals." Joe made a box to the left and just a little lower than Boone for Sanders.

"And they were both aligned with Jamal Alou, but he's no longer in the picture."

"But he was, so we need to put him on our list," Morelli said, putting a big X through the box with Alou's name in it, sandwiched between Boone and Sanders.

"Okay, so, where does Little J fit into all this?" Morelli wondered out loud.

"Little J's friends told you it was Varela."

"They didn't have proof," Morelli said. "From where I'm standing, it could just as easily have been Stanton's boys. Without a murder weapon or eye witnesses, I'm stuck."

"You'd need a confession," I realized.

"Yep, pretty much…or a witness who hasn't come forward yet."

"Like Lino Pavia?" I asked.

"Maybe," he said, scratching his stubble.

Morelli wrote Little J's name in a box off to the side, just under Gaspick, and put a question mark by it.

We both stared at the paper for a while. My mind was a complete blank, and I wished I was in bed in my favorite thinking position, which usually appeared to be very similar to my napping position. Morelli seemed to be having the same thought. He yawned and pulled his chair back.

"Time to call it a night, Cupcake."

"We're getting somewhere, right?"

"Yeah," he said, not sounding terribly reassuring.

He dropped me off at my apartment, coming up to check it out before leaving. He looked under the bed, in the closets, and was making an even more thorough search than the night before, if that was possible.

"What are you looking for?" I asked, getting irritated.

"I don't know," he said suspiciously, "but I'll know when I find it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I said hotly. I didn't need Morelli playing the jealous boyfriend again. If he thought I was harboring Ranger in my apartment, he was sorely mistaken.

Morelli was tired, and he didn't want to fight.

"Steph, when I look at you…" He blew out a long sigh. "How can I make you understand?" He took a step back from me and hooked his fingers in his back pockets and stared at the ceiling, silently asking God for help to find the right words. "When I close my eyes, I can still see you, just six years old, running up to me in my driveway. Your hair was short for the first time, and so curly, because you'd gotten gum in your hair and your mom had to cut it."

I smiled a little, remembering.

"To me, you'll always be small and trusting and running up to me…looking up to me, and expecting me to take care of you."

"You've never taken care of me, Joe!" I laughed at the thought. "You took advantage of me then. You took advantage of me in high school, and now and again you still manage to take advantage of me when the mood strikes you. Other times you don't call me for months on end. How can you call that taking care of me?"

He pursed his lips together in a quick, regretful smile. "I never hurt you, Steph. Did I?"

"Physically, no, but emotionally…YES!" He had hurt me big time.

He leaned back against the kitchen counter top. He knew I was right. Our history was a pile of dusty rubble.

"I just keep seeing you running up to me, Steph. Why? If I'm so awful for you, why do you keep coming back? What do you want from me?"

"I don't know, Joe!" I threw up her hands. "Maybe I just want you to be sorry!"

"I am sorry," he said, reaching out and grabbing my arms and pulling me a little closer. "Oh, baby, I am sorry. And I'm not. I wouldn't trade a single one of my memories of you for anything."

"You wrote my name on bathroom walls! You kissed and then you told everything! You made a fool of me, you embarrassed me. I just wanted to die," I sobbed. "And then, you didn't even call me."

"I thought we were through all this? Huh? That was a long time ago?"

"It was still you, Joe. You were insecure then, and you're still insecure now. And I don't know what I can do or say to make things more secure for you. It doesn't matter what I say or what I do. You're never going to completely trust me. This is as good as it gets!"

"If you hate me so much, what's this?" He asked, pulling me close and tracing a finger down the wet trail of a tear that had just run down my cheek.

"Why am I never enough for you?" I asked, breathlessly, looking up into eyes.

"You think you're not enough for me?"

"I wasn't before," I croaked in a hoarse whisper.

"I was eight and eighteen before," he said, trying not to laugh. "I had no concept of 'us'. There was only 'me' in those days. And even then, I saw you, and I wanted you. But I've grown up, and everything's different now. And you're more than enough." I pulled her close and pressed my lips to her cheek and whispered in her ear. "You're more than enough, and you're all I need."

_To be continued…_


	27. Chapter 27 Gone Like Smoke

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Bit of Morelli trivia for you...did you know that Dagwood Bumstead's barber is named Morelli? Check out Blondie for November 1st, 2007. I couldn' t believe it when I saw Morelli on the name plate!

**Morelli's POV**

I'd had two hours sleep in the last three days. I was way past exhausted, and I had a very important arraignment in the morning. I wasn't convinced Steph was safe in her apartment. I didn't trust myself to drive home. And I absolutely didn't trust myself to stay with Steph.

Ordinarily, I'd tuck her in and lock up after myself. She has a chain on her door, but we both know it's only good for keeping honest people honest. If someone wants to break in, that little chain isn't going to stop them. It sure wouldn't stop me. But this time, I considered it to be just enough of a barrier to give me a few extra seconds to make it up the stairs. So, I had Steph lock up behind me and suggested she rig up an alarm on the door. She's been known to stack dishes against the door. I called that her "Recipe for Disaster". It was the only time I'd ever seen her use pots and pans. Regardless, that was exactly the kind of creativity I was hoping for tonight.

I stretched out under a thermal blanket on the back seat of the SUV and turned the audio surveillance equipment to max volume so that if she started screaming at an intruder I would hear her. Nothing short of hysterics or crashing pots and pans was likely to wake me at this point. I heard Steph puttering around and then a clatter in the kitchen followed by the unmistakable sounds of empty beer cans being stacked in the foyer. She kept clinking them, and then there would be a crash as they fell to the linoleum. I just knew she was trying to stack them into a pyramid, and I smiled to myself in the dark. That's my girl. The Bounty Hunter from Hell. I decided to dub this little number her "Bud-ie System". When she was done, everything went quiet and when her light went off, Rex started running in his hamster wheel. I was asleep before Rex had made it a quarter mile.

I was dreaming about a train that was soaring over my head as I stood in a concrete ditch. It was dark and silent except for the rhythmic squeaking of some loose railroad tracks. The train went on and on, and I was lulled into a relaxed stupor, and I realized the ditch was covered in graffiti. I started looking for LINC13, but there were too many pieces and it was too dark. I couldn't find his work again. Then I saw Cuppa and Joe hanging suspended from rope swings, painting the arch way above the train tunnel. The train was displacing a lot of air, and the boys were blowing back and forth in the rush of wind, barely able to hold on. I was running towards them, the sound of the train deafening. I was screaming for them to hold on. Then suddenly, there was silence and darkenss. I opened one eye. I didn't know where I was for a minute, and I had to sit up and take stock of the interior of the vehicle before recognizing it as my own. I was disoriented from sleep deprivation and my head was spinning.

Rex was silent. It was the silence that woke me. Not a noise. I strained my ears and thought I heard two distinct sets of clicks from the amplified speakers, one after the other in rapid succession. I was betting I wouldn't have heard them at all if the volume hadn't been all the way up. Then there was a slight rustling of a plastic garbage bag in the kitchen. Someone was checking out her trash can. Then the fridge door opened, and then a cabinet and a drawer. Someone was making a quick, methodical search of her apartment. I had my gun in my right hand and my left hand on the door handle when I heard the lid being lifted off the cookie jar. She always kept her gun in the cookie jar…like Rockford. Whoever was in there was possibly now armed, although chances that there were actually bullets in the gun were slight. Then, I heard the jar lid click back into place. Either the intruder came to the same conclusion – the gun was empty – or it was Ranger. I thought about waiting a moment longer to find out before barging in, but decided I couldn't take the chance.

I raced across the parking lot and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I expected the door to be open, but it was locked when I tried it. I quickly put my key into the door knob lock and the matching dead bolt. The door caught on the security chain. I kicked the door open, breaking the security chain, and rushed in, stumbling and falling in a heap as I crashed into the pyramid of beer cans. Stephanie came running past me and into the kitchen, scrambling to get her gun. I called out to her not to shoot me, and she continued fishing for her gun, so I called out again.

"I heard you!" she shouted.

I was on my feet now, thinking maybe I should run, because she might be intent on blowing _me_ away. "Steph, there's someone in the apartment!" I shouted.

We met in the living room, each of us flipping on lights as we searched the apartment together, back to back. We entered her bedroom and I rushed to the window expecting the glass to be broken out or cut, but it was intact and locked. We looked under the bed, in the closet and in the bathroom. No one was there.

"What the hell is going on here?" I yelled in frustration.

"That's what I want to know!" Steph yelled back at me. "This is the second time you've come barging in here in the middle of the night telling me someone is in my apartment! What's going on, Joe?"

I threw up my hands in futility. "All I know is that someone was here in your apartment just now besides you and Rex."

"How do you know that?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at me. "And what are you doing here? I thought you went home an hour ago."

"I was sleeping in my car in your parking lot."

"Joe, the window is secure, and no one came through that door tonight but you."

"I know." I sat down on the couch in the living room and caught my breath.

"I think you're over-worked and you're so tired you don't know what you're doing, Joe. I'm worried sick about you." She rubbed my arm and shoulders.

"Me too," I said, thinking it might have been possible I imagined it after all. If believing that meant I could go back to sleep, I was all for it. Then I thought about the cookie jar and Steph's scramble to get there ahead of me. I had to wonder if she suspected it was Ranger too.

"So, did Ranger leave you a message in the cookie jar? You were in quite a hurry to beat me to it." It was a stab in the dark, but I had a feeling.

"Who, me?" That's Steph-speak for "guilty as charged".

"Yes, you." I pulled her to me and searched the pockets of her pajamas and came up with a little slip of paper that said, "You forgot this, Babe." I raised an eyebrow in question.

"I was carrying when Gazarra came to pick me and Lula up after her car was stolen, so I tossed it in a bush."

"You tossed your 9mm Sig Sauer in a bush?"

"It wasn't loaded."

I took the gun from her hand and felt the weight of it. "It is now."

"Huh." She shrugged.

"How does he get in here?" I asked.

"It's magic. He's like smoke. I figure he slips under the door jam, but this time he didn't knock over my intruder alarm."

"This time?" I was tempted ask her if Ranger popped in often, but then thought better of it. I already knew the answer. Besides, she'd just remind me how many times I'd let myself in without her permission.

She brought me a pillow and blanket, and I stretched out on the couch and was out like a light. I felt better knowing it had in fact been Ranger, even if I couldn't figure out how he got in or out. I didn't even hear her locking the door and restacking the beer cans, but they were in place in the morning when the sunlight came streaming in through her picture window.

_To be continued..._


	28. Chapter 28 One Down, One Missing

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

There were so many things I wanted to do today, and only so many hours in the day. I sipped my coffee and tried to mentally prepare for the arraignment.

A few hours sleep worked wonders. The fog of confusion was lifting as I drove back to my apartment. I was feeling much more confident once I was showered, shaved, and dressed. I still hadn't totally made up my mind about a few things. I was going to end up winging it, but truth is, that's when I was usually at my best.

Mooch arrived at the last second, and I nearly died laughing when he walked through the door. I had never seen Mooch in a suit in all my life. Even at funerals, he'd refused to wear a shirt and tie, let alone a suit jacket. He'd cut his hair and shaved. He looked all slicked up like a nerd going out on his first date.

"Too much?" he asked.

"Way too much." I sent him to the bathroom to wash some of the grease out of his hair. I could see enough family resemblance to understand why the Chief had asked me never to wear a suit. He'd said it made me look like a casino pit boss. Whatever impression we were about to make on the Judge, that look wasn't going to win us any points. I was wearing my dress uniform and looked pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. I could have done with a haircut, but there wasn't time.

When we arrived, I scanned the courtroom and immediately found Steph dressed in a navy blue skirt suit sitting with Lula on the back row. No doubt courtrooms made Lula as nervous as the cop shop. Mooch and I sat down front, waiting with Lucas and Joe, who were wearing orange jumpsuits.

We didn't have to wait long. After looking us over, the Judge listened to the State's opening remarks, the boy's court appointed attorney's opening remarks, and accepted written statements from Stephanie and Lula. Then I stood and presented my request that the boys be released to Mooch's temporary custody, then approached for a sidebar discussion in which I explained the boy's role in my pending cases and how their testimony, to be given following the expected arrests of Stanton and Sanders, was crucial, as was as their assistance in solving our most pressing murder investigations. The Judge was long suffering. Then he asked his searching questions and I struggled for answers.

"What you're telling me is that these defendants may be helpful to you in your prosecution of the Police Department's recent shootings? I thought the shootings were unrelated."

"We aren't convinced of that," I answered. "I'm investigating the possibility that someone is paying juveniles to murder cops."

"Do you have a suspect?"

"I have a few suspects. I have fewer solid leads. My first real leads came from the defendants."

The judge pushed his spectacles higher up his nose and leafed through my request again. "Did you search for Varela and Pavia near the State Prision on 2nd Street as these boys first suggested?" he asked.

I didn't want to say that I blew them off and didn't take them seriously. I paused, then said, "No, Your Honor. Not at that time. I didn't have any proof that Varela had committed the murder of Little J. There were no witnesses, only his friends' speculations. I couldn't have held Varela even if I'd found him."

He wasn't impressed. "Perhaps you would have been able to locate the murder weapon," he suggested.

"I don't think so. The shooting of Little J and Officer Gaspick smacks of a set up…a trap. Anyone going to that much trouble isn't stupid enough to keep the weapon in their possession. I had no proof to offer in exchange for a search warrant." I was starting to sweat.

"Your database searches come up with no address?"

"The names Dimas Varela and Lino Pavia are not listed in any New Jersey database. Their parents are likely illegal immigrants, and they are attending school under other aliases. Their names are not legally registered in New Jersey, and a wider search was inconclusive."

"So, essentially, you don't even know who these kids are that you're after?"

"That's right, Your Honor. I only have those names and a few pictures."

"So, now you want a search warrant to go into the Mt. Cooper's Boy's Home to search for guns which may or may not tie in to this latest shooting, whereupon you expect to arrest Stanton. And you're asking these boys to testify against Stanton in exchange for dropping the eluding and reckless endangerment charges?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"As they are expected to enter guilty pleas at their hearing, making the proceedings rather straight forward at that time, I will allow custody to be transferred temporarily to Mr. Morelli at your address. If they are present for the hearing and plead as expected, and depending upon Mr. Morelli's report of their behavior, I _may_ see fit to _suspend_ their sentences until after the investigation is concluded."

"Thank you, Your Honor," I said.

"However, your request for a search warrant is denied. When you bring me stronger evidence, we will discuss it again."

I nodded, thanked the Judge and assisted Mooch in getting the custody paperwork filled out.

Steph was waiting for me in the lobby when I walked out about an hour later. She took one look at my face and sighed.

"No warrant?"

"Nope."

"So, am I up now?"

"Yeah, Cupcake, it's all yours." I knew I was living dangerously, letting Steph and her crew go after the evidence I needed, but I didn't have any other options, and if we were going to be working together, we had to start somewhere. Beside, she was lucky, and her brand of lucky was usually just as effective as my brand of planning and patience. Right now, I only had time for lucky.

We were walking down the courthouse steps towards our vehicles when I turned my police radio back on. There was a lot of chatter. Steph was oblivious at first, talking about her family, something about dinner, but I was listening to frantic voices issuing orders and requests using our familiar codes. I turned my phone back on and found I had messages. Steph finally realized I wasn't listening and quit talking.

My voicemail was from Bell. He was telling me that Andy Zabotsky, an apprehension agent working for Sebring Bail Bonds was moonlighting for us as a security guard. Some idiot had put him in charge of guarding Gaspick's room at the hospital. Zabotsky was dead, shot once in the head, and Gaspick was missing. No blood other than what appeared to have been the result of having his tubes ripped out. He'd been taken off the respirator earlier in the morning.

I told Steph what was going on, listened to the other voicemails which were all pretty much the same. She looked at me, and I knew we were both wondering the same thing.

"You don't really think Lucas and Joe told someone where Gaspick was being held, do you?"

"I don't know," I said. Because, at this point, nothing would surprise me.

"Who else knew?"

I shrugged. "Wouldn't be hard to figure that's where he was, but the timing is what bothers me."

"What do you mean?"

"It seems like they waited till he was off the respirator...like they didn't want him killed. They could have just shot him like they did Zabotsky. Someone wants him alive."

I called Bell and told him I was on my way over to the hospital. Lula had taken a cab back to the bond's office, so Steph was riding with me.

There was chaos on the secure floor as we stepped off the elevator. The photographer was already there snapping pictures, everyone was being issued gloves and being told to watch his step. We all knew Andy. He was an okay guy, I guess. But he wasn't a cop. He was just in the way, apparently.

"So, what do you make of this?" Bell asked me as we met him in the middle of the hallway.

I peered past the body to the empty bed with the tubes still hanging from the IV bags and monitoring equipment. "Looks like it wasn't enough just to kill Gaspick. Someone wants something from him. Feels to me like Gaspick might have gotten in over his head somehow."

"You think this could all be over Gaspick?" Bell asked, fishing around for a theory.

I shrugged. "Zabotsky was fatally wounded. The other cops were all fatally wounded. Why wasn't Gaspick killed? He was critically wounded, but those weren't kill shots. Maybe he would have been abducted at the time of the shooting but there were too many of us on the scene."

I was wondering what Gaspick, known around Trenton as "Mr. Clean", could possibly have been involved in. Drugs, guns, and dirty money? I was having a hard time swallowing it.

Bell seemed to agree. "Gaspick was dumb enough to arrest Uncle Mo, but he's too much of a Boy Scout to be involved in black market affairs," he said. Uncle Mo had been a Burg staple, selling ice cream and candy to local kids for about 100 years, when Gaspick busted him for carrying concealed. It was like busting Santa Claus.

"What if all this ties back to his arresting Uncle Mo," Steph suggested.

"That was ages ago," I said. "Why now?"

"Well, I don't know. Those citizens' groups can take a while to get organized." She was grasping at straws.

"Really? Who do you think is in charge of this conspiracy? Old Mrs. Bestler? Maybe I can go check that out right after I solve JFK's murder. What do you say?" I knew I shouldn't have gotten smart with her, but sometimes her theories are so ludicrous I just can't help it.

She glared at me, her eyes becoming dark slits in an angry face. "You're scum, Morelli!" she hissed, and turning on her heels, she marched to the stairwell and was pounding down the steps while five other officers were yelling for her to stop. She was treading on possible evidence, but there was no stopping her. We just hadn't gotten the crime scene tape up fast enough.

_To be continued..._


	29. Chapter 29 Steph's POV Out of Gas

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

I called Ranger from the lobby at St. Francis, but he didn't answer. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have dreamed of calling Tank, but this was an emergency. I had to get out of there before Morelli came down the stairs. I dialed Tank, but the "Yo," at the other end of the phone belonged to Bobby Brown.

"I need a ride," I said.

"What happened to the Porsche?" he asked.

"Nothing! It's fine. It's at my apartment. I'm at St. Francis. I need a ride back."

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm okay. Andy Zabotsky isn't."

"We heard." The RangeMan team heard everything. The minute intelligent life was discovered on Mars, RangeMan would be able to provide a full description. "Be there in ten." And he disconnected.

Ten minutes later, a big shiny black Range Rover pulled up in front of the juniper bush beside the parking garage enterance where i was hiding. I didn't even have to tell Bobby exactly where I was. They always knew. I ran around to the passeger side and climbed up into the front seat.

"So, why aren't you driving the Porsche?" he asked, smiling. He knew why. He just wanted to hear me say it.

"Because I didn't want to park the Porsche in front of the court house, and I didn't want to walk ten blocks."

"Still afraid it's stolen, aren't you?" he laughed, putting Range Rover in gear and taking off while I struggled to get my seat belt fastened.

"Do you know where Ranger gets all these vehicles?" I asked.

"If I told you…" he said laughing.

"You'd have to kill me?" I asked with a smile, knowing he was kidding.

"No, but Ranger'd kill me, so I'm not telling."

Bobby dropped me at my apartment building. I ran inside, scrounged up a peanut butter and olive sandwich and washed it down with my last beer. I tossed Rex a couple fruit loops and he poked his head out of his soup can and looked at me, whiskers whirring.

"You don't think I should give up on this bounty hunter thing, do you, Rex?"

Rex's little black eyes looked thoughtful for a second. Then he stuffed both cheeks full of fruit loops and turned tail back into his soup can.

"You're right," I told him. "We've just got to soldier on." Rex gave great pep talks.

I zipped up my black wool jacket, pushed a black wool ski cap down on my head, re-tied one of my black steel-toed boots, inspected a small hole in the knee of my new black jeans where I'd skinned my knee chasing a desperate felon, and pulled my big black leather bag onto my shoulder. I stood tall. I stood proud. I strutted around the room, gathering my courage. Then I ran to the mirror and added two more coats of mascara and a dash of Dolce Vita, which always seemed to be an effective means of courage-building. I tossed my hair, which didn't turn out to be a worthwhile gesture with the cap on. I stood in my Wonder Woman stance, fists on hips, head held high, and looked at myself in the full length mirror. Stephanie Plum, the original Bounty Hunter Barbie.

I locked up my apartment, took the stairs to the first floor, and ran from the door to the Porsche. The temperature was dropping and it was freezing cold. I revved the engine and headed for the bond's office. Along the way, the Porsche started acting funny. First, it made a wrong turn onto Hamilton. Then I realized it was going around the block. Without my consent, it parked in front of Tasty Pastry. I breathed a sigh of relief. I turned the ignition off and locked up before sprinting through the door.

Connie and Lula were sipping coffee at Connie's desk when I walked in. Their eyes lit up at the sight of the pastry box.

"Got any fritters?" Connie asked.

Lula opened the box. "Looks like she's got one of everything in here," she said, grabbing a doughnut with each hand. Good thing I ate two Boston Crème's in the car on the way over.

"Got anything for me?" I asked Connie.

"I got something for you!" Vinnie yelled from his inner sanctum. "Where's Sanders?"

"Why did you give me Sanders?" I yelled back. "You know he should belong to Ranger!"

"You wanted Lonnie Dodd, and he should have been Ranger's. You want to keep playing with the big boys, you need to bring me Sanders!" With that, he slammed and locked his door.

"Coward!" I yelled.

"Have you asked Ranger for help?" Connie asked. Actually, it was more of a suggestion.

"No. I can't keep depending on Ranger. I have my own team now."

"Oh, yeah. Well, you'll need a team for this one," she said, sliding me a file. "Alphonse Ruzick. He's usually Ranger's, but Ranger's busy and isn't taking any new skips right now."

"Busy? Doing what?"

"Who knows with Ranger."

"He didn't answer his cell when I called him earlier. He didn't leave town did he?" Sometimes Ranger would disappear for a few weeks. Lula was convinced that his disappearances tended to coincide with governmental shakeups in various parts of the world.

"He didn't say, but I get the feeling it's something a little more personal."

"Why's that?"

"He was smiling." Connie was watching for my reaction, thinking I knew something about it, which I didn't.

"Ranger doesn't smile."

"Only when you're around," she said craftily.

"Well, it's got nothing to do with me," I assured her, taking the Ruzick file and stuffing it into my bag. "Lula, you want to ride along?" I asked, knowing what the answer would be. Lula was an even bigger chicken than I was.

"No way, Jose!" She picked up a stack of files and shuffled towards the filing cabinets, smearing grape jelly from her last doughnut onto the outside of the files. "I'm never going after another one of Ranger's skips with you."

"Why not? We got Lonnie Dodd, no problem."

"You set the man on fire," she said, hands on hips, eyebrows raised. "Next time, it might be me. Besides, you just lost me my Firebird."

"You weren't mad about that this morning."

"That was then. This is now." Lula said, tossing the files on top of the filing cabinet and opening a drawer.

I shrugged, grabbed one more Boston Crème, and headed for the door.

An hour later, Richie Biglo and I were staring open mouthed at a large black box sitting on Bernie Kuntz's work bench.

"What is it?" I asked, afraid I already knew.

"That's your tracking device. My first," he said proudly.

"Keep working on it," I said. "It has to be smaller." Way smaller.

"Why? You're going to put it on a car, right? No one's going to see it."

"Are you kidding me? The guy at Midas would see it. The guy changing Ruzick's oil would see it. The guy selling him tires would see it." I grabbed it and stuck it to a file cabinet and it slid down the cabinet slowly. "And it weighs too much. It'll fall off the car the first time he hits a bump."

"Well, you can tape it down, then," Bernie said hotly. "That's all I've got for you right now. I'm not a professional, you know. I'm just trying to help you out. It's not like you paid my expenses up front. Speaking of which, _am_ I getting paid?"

I shrugged. I wasn't getting paid either, and our near-future prospects didn't look good. "I'm sorry, Bernie," I said. "It's just that I may need more help than this."

"I'll keep working on it," he said, handing me a small roll of black electrical tape. "Here. Tape it on with this. Here's the receiver." He handed me a portable television that should have been on a recycling bin somewhere, which on second thought was probably right where he'd found it.

"You've got to be kidding me!" I turned on the television. All it showed was black and white static. Beneath the noise of the static I could hear a nearly continuous buzzing sound.

"What?" Bernie shouted defensively. "You expected GPS?"

"Yes!" I said, shoving the tracer into my pocket and turning off the television receiver.

"Works better if the antenna is up," he said to my back as I stormed out, trailing Richie behind me.

We got into the Porsche, and Richie looked out the window, trying not to laugh. "Where do we start looking for Ruzick?"

"When I was asking around for Ranger last time, Sandy Polan told me he always comes home to his mother's for Sunday dinner, but I don't think I want to wait that long, and I don't want to tackle him on his mother's front lawn."

"Good thinking. Probably we should try to pick him up at Blue Fish," he said. That's when it hit me.

"Wait a minute. Alphonse Ruzick. Ruzick and Dish. Ruzick and Dish and Jamal Alou. You said they were doing business together."

"They were till you iced Alou."

"I can't go in there!"

"No kidding," he said. "But we could drive by. We're in Ranger's car and the windows are tinted. They'll think we're either Ranger or drug dealers. Either way, no one will mess with us down on Stark Street. We just won't get out of the car. Besides, you don't look like you with that cap on."

We cruised up and down Stark, but decided it was too early to run into Ruzick or Dish. They were night people. So we got something to eat at Pino's and waited for dark. It was a Thursday, Richie's night off.

We drove back down Stark and cruised for about an hour before Richie spotted Ruzick's car coming down the street at us.

"How can you tell that's him?" I asked.

"It's a 90's Mercury Sable. See how the front grill between the headlights is lit up too?"

I glared at him. "Yeah, I see it," I snarled at him. I was never going to understand this headlight recognition thing. Were all men born knowing the headlights for every car ever manufactured? I guessed that explained why there was so little room in their brains for anything else.

The silver Sable passed us. I saw the man who was driving it, and he didn't look friendly.

"Yep, that's him," Richie said. "That's Ruzick."

I turned around in a parking lot and followed him for about ten minutes before he pulled into a gas station. What luck! He started pumping gas, and then he was sitting in the car, waiting for the pump to click off.

"Okay, here's the plan," I said. "When he gets out, I'll just walk up to him and stun him, and then you and I can cuff him and stuff him into his own car and deliver him straight to the Docket Lieutenant." I fished my stun gun out of my bag, made sure it was charged, and stuck it in my jacket pocket. I tucked my cuffs in the other pocket and handed a pair of leg shackles to Richie.

"Okay," he said, stashing the shackles, zipping up his coat, and putting his hood up.

We got out and started walking towards Ruzick just as he got out and slapped the pump back into place. He'd already paid, and was back in his car and was turning over the engine. I was about to lose him. I ran up to his car window and knocked, hoping to figure out some way of getting him out of the vehicle. My knuckles, wrapped around my stun gun, were resting on a one-dollar bill in my jacket pocket, change from the doughnuts. Ruzick jumped and looked at me through his dirty driver's window.

"Hey, mister! You dropped some money!" I yelled at him, showing him the wadded up bill in my hand. I figured any guy who still eats at his mom's every Sunday and drives a '95 Sable can't afford to be throwing money away.

He opened his door and reached his hand out to take the money from me. Richie had been pretending to be walking past me up to the door of the convenience store, but suddenly he turned and grabbed Ruzick's arm and yanked. I dropped the dollar bill and reached into my jacket for the stun gun. Richie let go of Ruzick just as I was about to hit the button. Ruzick's arm caught me by surprise and he shoved me hard enough to knock me off my feet and onto my back. Richie stood rooted to the spot, his eyes round as two dinner plates.

"Get him!" I yelled as Ruzick scrambled back into his seat, hit the gas, and pulled away, his car door still half open. I leaped up and ran along side the car, trying to wrench the door open. Ruzick slammed the door shut on my jacket sleeve. He was entering traffic, dragging me down the street in the dark, the rubber soles of my boots smoking on the pavement. I lost my footing and suddenly sparks were shooting out behind me as my steel-toes dragged the ground. I kicked out, trying to get my feet under me again. Richie was running after me, reaching for me, trying to pull me free.

A shot rang out and the glass of the driver's window shattered.

"Get off!" Ruzick bellowed.

I unzipped my jacket with my left hand and wiggled out of it. Just when I thought I was free let out a I scream as I was yanked forward again, this time by my hair. Richie flipped open a pocket knife and started slicing away at my hair as a second shot zinged past us. With an agonizing rip, I was free. Richie pulled me to the curb. We were standing in under a street lamp a block away from the gas station, gasping for air.

I reached up to feel my hair, and started crying. I was cold, my shoes were ruined, I was probably half bald, and I didn't get my man. I'd even lost my dollar, but I still had my stun gun. My hand was cramping from gripping it so tightly. Richie gasped, took my other hand, turned me away from the gas station, and started running again.

"Hey!" I yelled. "Let go!"

Then I heard an unmistakable WHUMP as the gas pump Ruzick had been using went up in flames. I turned just in time to see about thirty people running in all directions. I held my breath, praying that someone would have had enough sense to hit the emergency shut off on the pumps before running away. No such luck.

The blast sent the joined pair of gas pumps airborne, straight up like a rocket. We watched the projectile burn out and then grow larger and larger as if fell back down to earth. It landed with a sickening crunch, right on top of the Porsche. Then a second explosion rocked the lot as the Porsche's gas tank exploded. There were a dozen other cars on fire now, exploding at intervals like pop-corn. A minute later, the second set of gas pumps took off, slamming down right in the center of the convenience store, shattering the windows. Black smoke filled the air and the sounds of police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks were growing louder and louder. The street was lined with people. News crews would be here in a matter of minutes. Richie and I stood in shocked silence, dressed in black but still not able to blend into the night like Ranger and his men would have.

I was no stranger to blowing up buildings. But the funny thing was, every time seemed like the first time. I reached for my phone, but realized my bag was in the Porsche which was nothing more than a smoldering cinder.

Richie gave me his coat and sheltered me from the cold till Morelli pulled up, screeching to a stop beside us, his Kojak light flashing on top of his SUV. He jumped out and raced around the car, his hands shaking as he inspected my hair and face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, breathless and panicked.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Anyone else hurt?" he asked.

"I don't think so." Richie said. "Not unless someone was still inside the convenience store. I think everyone ran."

"Dead bodies?" he asked, covering all his bases.

"No!" I cried, defensively.

"Just checking." Buckey and Kenny had answered the call. We watched as they worked to spray foam on the fire. "How did this happen?" Morelli asked, gesturing towards the burning remains of the gas station, still in a state of disbelief.

"I'm not sure," I said, my voice still shaking.

"Stun gun," Richie told him.

"What?" Morelli said, incredulous. "You used a stun gun at a gas station?"

"Well, I didn't think it would blow up!" I yelled. "If Ruzick had stood still, this wouldn't have happened!"

"I know, I know," Morelli said, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "It wasn't your fault. If only those darned bad guys would turn themselves in and go quietly." He was mocking me again.

"Hey!" I yelled. "It was an accident!"

"No, it was reckless endangerment! And I ought to haul your ass in for this one!"

"You wouldn't dare." I tried to give him the eye like his Grandma Bella, but he'd grown up with the eye and it didn't faze him in the slightest.

"At least I'd know you were safe!" Morelli really sounded like a broken record sometimes.

"I'm fine!" I yelled.

"Get in the car," he ordered us both. Richie grabbed me, pushing me roughly into the back seat of Morelli's SUV. I'd forgotten he was freezing. We watched Morelli walk down the street to talk to Kenny and John Petrucci, the fire marshal.

I stuck my hands deep into the pockets of Richie's coat and felt the little black and white television that served as the tracking receiver. I pulled it out, switched it on, and it went BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. I handed it to Richie and jumped into the front seat. Morelli had left his keys, which was not his usual MO. I was due some luck. I turned the engine over and took off. If I was going down for starting the fire, I was taking Alphonse Ruzick with me.

"Which way?" I asked.

"Are you nuts!?" Richie was screaming! "You can't steal a cop car!"

"I'm not stealing a cop car. I'm borrowing Joe's SUV." I was the queen or rationalization.

"Let me out!"

"Are you going to be a weenie or are you going to tell me which way Ruzick is headed?"

Richie calmed down after a few blocks and started giving me left, right, straight directions, but we kept running into dead ends. It was like running a rat maze. We could smell the cheese, but we kept hitting walls. I was cursing myself for ever trusting Bernie Kuntz.

As I turned back onto Hamilton for the third time, I saw Ranger in my rearview mirror. He was driving his big black truck with the bug lights and serious antennae that let him communicate with NASA. Morelli was with him. Richie's cell phone rang.

"Don't answer it!" I yelled. "It's Morelli."

We seemed to be driving around in circles, and Morelli's SUV was almost out of gas. I was running out of time. The beeping had been strong and steady, but it was getting stronger as we approached the Burg. I took a shot and drove towards Ruzick's mother's house.

Mrs. Ruzick lived in a yellow duplex with a yellow-brick stoop on a block of duplexes with a bakery on the corner. The back yards were long and narrow, and an alley one lane wide ran behind. Between the duplexes were double drives with single-car garages. Mrs. Ruzick's car was parked on the street and the beeping became a flat-line as we approached. I glimpsed Ranger turning down the street behind me, and I hit the gas. I was going to prove to those arrogant jerks that I could do this job, once and for all. Alphonse Ruzick was mine.

I raced past the Ruzick house. The only way Ranger had followed us was that either I or the SUV were bugged. Since I didn't have anything left but the clothes on my back, I figured it was the SUV. Our only hope was to jam the transmissions.

"Turn on anything electronic you can find, all the way up!" I yelled. I turned on the radio, the radar detector, the vehicle lights, windshield wipers…I even pushed in the cigarette lighter. Then, over the din, I heard a familiar sound. Rex! I looked in the rear view mirror at Richie.

"What's back there?"

"Receiver," he said.

"Can you make it send instead of receive?" I asked.

"No! It's a receiver, not a transmitter." He dug around in the back some more and came up with Morelli's back up hand-held police radio. "Here's one!"

"Start going through all the channels except the police channels," I told him. "I'll see if I can lose them." I ran Ranger through my old tried and true route for losing a tail, but he knew it well and kept up. I was expecting a RangeMan road block any minute. "Keep switching channels!" I yelled, as I headed sharply down an alley and then through a car wash and down another alley. I had no idea if any of this was really working, but I didn't see Ranger in my mirrors anymore. I took a series of side streets, switched back and headed towards Mrs. Ruzick's. I raced down the back alley and the signal was still strong. We drove two blocks over, parked, and locked the SUV. Then we ran through yards till we came to a stop in front of Mrs. Ruzick's yellow garage.

We wrenched open the garage door. There was the Sable. My jacket was lying on the floor of the garage. I handed Richie his coat and put mine back on. There was a fair bit of my hair lying on the floor of the garage too. I wanted this guy bad. We closed the garage door behind us.

Maybe Morelli and Ranger were right, I thought. Maybe I should have more patience…have a plan. I opened the driver's door and climbed in, searching for the gun. It was in the glove box. I took it out and shoved it into a McDonald's bag lying on the floor. I crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash can nearby.

Then I opened the back door and tried to pull down the back seats. I peered into the empty trunk. Perfect. If Ruzick's relationship with his mother was in any way normal, he'd be leaving for his own place within an hour. Richie grabbed a pair of pliers and broke the plastic clips on the seat backs so they wouldn't lock into place. Then we both climbed into the trunk, which was a very tight fit for Richie, and pulled the seats back up into place. Then we waited, ignoring the cramping and discomfort. I saw the glow of Richie's watch in the dark as he checked it every few minutes.

After forty-five minutes, we heard the garage door open and Ruzick slid behind the wheel and pulled out of the drive. We waited until he was motoring down the road, the radio on, humming to himself before we slowly lowered the seat backs. I had my stun gun in my hand, and I jabbed it into his neck and hit the button. Zap! He was out like a light. I was trying to steer while Richie was trying to pull him out of the driver's seat. That had been the plan, and it had seemed like a good plan while we were waiting in the trunk. But now, Richie was having trouble with his part of the plan.

"Richie! Get him out of the seat! His foot is on the gas!" I yelled as we barreled through an intersection at 50 miles per hour. Fortunately, the light had been green, but I wasn't so sure about the next one.

"I can't!" he yelled. "I was lying on my right arm, and it's asleep! I can't feel a thing!"

I was so mad I was temped to stun Richie but I was too busy trying to steer the car. We were hitting dips in the road and bouncing along, scraping up the under-carriage. Cars were honking and people's grandmother's were flipping me the bird.

"Take the wheel!" I yelled, trading him places. I slipped into the front passenger seat and tried to pull Ruzick's foot off the gas. I tried to shift the car into neutral, but there was a bang and a bump, and suddenly, we were airborne. There was a crash and the sound of plate glass breaking. Ruzick's foot mashed down on the gas as I felt the shifter slide into neutral. The engine roared till it redlined and blew, sputtering to a deathly silence. The car was rocking slightly. Richie opened the back door on the driver's side and jumped down. He looked around and started laughing. He came around and opened the passenger door and helped me climb down.

The car was perched seemingly in mid-air. The trunk was sitting on a sales counter and the front end was supported by a large commercial copier. I looked around to see why he was laughing. We were standing inside the sales office for the local cable company.

"Serves them right for making me wait seven months for service when that squirrel chewed up my cable line," he said, rubbing his arm vigorously and before pulling Ruzick from the front seat. I pulled out my cuffs and pulled his hands behind him while Richie slapped on the the ankle shackles. We dragged him out of the building, just in case it decided to blow up too.

I expected Ranger and Morelli to pull up any second, the way they usually did. We waited, but nothing happened. Ranger didn't have any tracers on me, and Morelli's SUV was out of gas new Mrs. Ruzick's house. Besides, I had Morelli's keys. We sat in silence. None of the neighbors or passers-by had even called the cops. Guess they didn't feel like helping out the cable company either.

With the Porsche blown to bits, I was once again without transportation. I had to get this grease-ball to the lock up somehow. Well, Ranger once made fun of me for going after an FTA in a cab. I'd show him I could bring in my man in a cab if I wanted to. So, I borrowed Richie's cell phone and dialed my dad.

_To be continued..._


	30. Chapter 30 Varela & Pavia

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

Ranger and I had been chasing after Steph for the better part of an hour.

"Just let her go!" I told him. "She doesn't want to be caught, and we're going to get someone killed if we keep this up."

"Someone's liable to be killed if we catch her," Ranger said without his usual humor, slowing down and stopping for a red light. "You okay?"

"Great. Just peachy," I growled.

"You got a tracking device on your SUV?"

I glared at him. "You know, I guess I just haven't gotten around to it yet. I've had so many other things to do lately."

"Understandable." The light turned green and Ranger accelerated through the intersection. "Any idea where she's headed?"

"None."

"Who was she after?"

"Alphonse Ruzick."

"Ruzick?" Ranger turned a corner and cruised towards the Burg.

"You really think she's still going after him tonight?"

"Could be."

"Yeah, could be," I agreed. "She's like a pit bull when she's got a lead on a case. She just won't let go."

"Tell me about it."

Ranger slowed and rolled to a stop behind my SUV. We got out and checked it. It was unoccupied and locked.

"Spare key?" he asked.

I nodded, bent down over the front end and fished around for the spare I kept hidden for just such an emergency. I got in and started the engine, and every electronic device in the SUV came on at once. I almost crapped myself. I shut everything off and checked the gas gauge. The needle was sitting a little below empty. "Great!" I climbed into the back and turned on the tracking receiver. I had to re-tune it to pick up the signal from the sunglasses I had given Steph.

"Where's Ruzick live?" I asked Ranger.

"Two blocks straight South. He's been living with his mother lately. His woman kicked him out."

I checked the signal and shook my head. "Yeah, that's where she went alright."

"You got this?" he asked.

"Yeah, thanks."

Ranger turned without further acknowledgement, climbed effortlessly into his electronic mobile fortress and took off.

I slid back into the driver's seat and took off for the nearest gas station to fill up and take an inventory on all the new dings and scratches. The signal was still holding steady when I returned. I parked on the next block down to watch and wait.

I saw Ruzick pull out of the garage and drive away. He was the only one in the car, but the sunglasses were definitely in the vehicle. I guessed she'd lost them after all. I followed Ruzick a few blocks. There was nothing odd about his behavior. I pulled up close behind him and listened at the next stop sign for any banging or yelling from the trunk. Nothing. I was watching for any traffic infraction I could use as an excuse to pull him over. I didn't have to wait long. As I watched, he started weaving, crossing the center line, then speeding, and then failing to stop at a stop light. I flipped on my Kojak light and siren and went screaming after him, but I had to slow down for the intersections where cars had skidded to a stop to avoid hitting him. I was about three blocks behind when the car crashed into the cable company office.

I hadn't called it in yet. I pulled to the side of the road and watched through night-scope binoculars, expecting Ruzick to appear, but instead Richie Biglo and Steph were pulling Ruzick from the car and cuffing him. They dragged him to the curb and just sat there.

"Well," I said to myself. "She's got her man. I've got my SUV back. Someone else can bring her in." I was just too angry to be sane right then, and I had things to do that just couldn't wait. Time was running out for Gaspick, if he wasn't dead already.

I left my lights off, turned around and drove down the street, calling in to the station that I found my vehicle but no sign of Steph or Richie.

It was only thirty minutes later that Neeley called to tell me that Steph had brought in Ruzick and had been detained for questioning in both accidents. Part of me wanted to run down to the station and bail her out, and the other part thought that if I didn't let her sink or swim on her own she would never learn. Besides, she hadn't called me. I decided if she asked for help, I'd give it...but _only_ if she asked.

It was already 11:30, and I was tired, but something the judge asked me just kept ringing in my ears. Why hadn't I gone to check out the area on 2nd Street that Joe and Lucas had mentioned the first time we met? Two reasons. One, I believed Lucas when he said I had a bull's-eye on my back. And second, I became a cop to bring in the criminals, not to destroy the lives of boys too young and too misguided to know better. I wanted the men with the money who were behind the shootings. I hadn't wanted to go down to 2nd Street, so I didn't go.

But now, the clock was ticking. The hitter from El Salvador was also weighing heavily on my mind. There was now a much more serious deadline looming than that imposed on me by the Chief. This was truly a life and death decision…but I wasn't sure whose life was on the line tonight as I turned around once more, removing my Kojak light from the roof and heading towards the area around 2nd Street.

This was gang territory. I had worked Vice before becoming Homicide, and I knew the volatility of these streets. The men and boys who walked these streets at night were unpredictable at best, deadly at worst. The area to the east of the prison was residential, much of it Hispanic. It was possible this was where Varela lived.

As I approached, I heard gunshots in the dark a few blocks away, screaming and shouting, the sound of tires. But I didn't follow. There would be many more scenarios like this played out tonight, and more again tomorrow. I had to keep focused on my search.

I caught sight of some young men shooting out a street light. They were Hispanic and I could make out tattoos on their arms and necks. I stopped briefly and watched as long as I dared, then went around the block and made another slow pass. There was a large bag of paraphernalia being carried by a young wanna-be. They walked up Third Street, which is just a block long and ends at the South Broad Street overpass over the 206. They hopped the barrier and tied a rope to the guard rail. I gave them a little time and then cruised the parking lot below with my lights off. One appeared to be the leader, and he was watching another paint an elaborate MS-13 tag right on the side of the overpass. A shudder of excitement passed through me. There was no mistaking it. This was Lino Pavia and Dimas Varela.

I called it in and organized a team to temporarily block traffic on the 206 and to help me cut them off on South Broad. I was holding my breath, fearing there wouldn't be time to catch them, expecting them to be armed. When they hauled Lino up I called it and we moved in.

We all approached at once, unmarked and no lights. We blocked both ends of the South Broadway overpass before they realized what was happening. One looked over the sides to the 206 below, but the drop would be deadly and the rope was too short. We had ten officers with guns drawn against about eight gang bangers. I gave the order for them to drop their weapons and lie face down on the ground. I got a lot of swearing and gestures and in return. They claimed they didn't speak English. They didn't think we'd shoot them as long as they didn't shoot first, and they were buying time.

I explained in Spanish that they were to lie face down on the ground with their hands behind their heads, and I gave the command as loudly and gruffly as I could over the loudspeaker of Steve Olmney's unmarked cop car. They jumped and five lay down. Three remained standing and there was some squabbling among the group. I repeated the order and explained they had no options. I counted to three, and they all laid down.

As the leader, who I believed was Varela, laid down, he pitched something metallic at us. I thought it was his gun, but as it continued to roll, I knew it wasn't.

"Grenade!" I screamed, and as the others ran for cover, I snatched it up and threw it over the side of the overpass. It exploded down on the deserted 206.

We all rushed the boys, some of whom had tried to run, including Varela. My heart was pounding and I wasted no time jumping on Varela, cuffing him, checking him for weapons, and finding a Glock 9, a switchblade and two sticks of dynamite. This guy was totally nuts. We also found five pounds of marijuana along with some cocaine, crack, and heroine, all packaged for distribution.

When we had the gang all zip-tied rather than cuffed, we stuffed them into the back of regular black and white's behind the cages, belted into their seats. We weren't taking any chances. They had been studying.

When we got to the station, I got my first real good look at them. The young men looked older than they were because they had been working out and were lean and well muscled, not to mention heavily tattooed. And the tattoos were amazing. Varela had a large MS on the back of one forearm and 13 on the other with such intricate scrollwork I knew immediately that it was done by Pavia. He had MS-13 on the back of his shaved head and lots of Spanish wording on the sides and front of his neck. When he removed his shirt, I could see he was just about covered with tattoos. He had _Mara Salvatrucha_ tattoo'd elegantly on his upper chest, curved around his collar bone. As I looked him over I thought he wasn't leaving much room for future records. I had seen a lot of men tattooed with faces and people they loved, but there were no people on Varela.

Some of the tattoos appeared to have been done with an old-school prison-born method of running a guitar string run through a small tube, like an empty ink pen, to an electric or battery-operated motor and dipping the end in ordinary pen ink. Prison tattoos are blue; these were all black. No color. It looked like the guys had eventually sprung for a real tattoo gun, or more likely, a shop owner let them use his equipment. Those tattoos were Lino Pavia signature tattoos, and all of the guys had them.

As Varela was processed, printed and finally stood before the camera, his eyes shone glinty and cold against the lights. He didn't blink as the photos were taken. I couldn't see ever reaching this guy.

I waited for the artist, who I believed must be Lino Pavia. He had few tattoos, probably because it's fairly difficult to tattoo yourself, and probably because the others kept him pretty busy from the looks of things. I watched him as he was printed and photographed. He held his chin up and tried not to blink, but after the flash he closed his eyes. He seemed trapped, and he still seemed to be human behind those dark eyes. His hair wasn't shaved like most of the others. It was short and spikey. He also wasn't offering up obscenities although he was hardly cooperative.

No one had ID. No one had offered a name. They had all had guns, drugs, and cash on them. All the paint cans had paint in them. No hidden compartments. I waited as the prints were run through the system. I was rewarded with priors and names on thee of the others, but nothing on Varela or Pavia.

We separated them and brought them in for questioning, but they weren't speaking English for us. We brought in Arnie Rupp and Mickey Maglio from Violent Crimes to assist us. Mickey accompanied me into the room where Varela was sitting relaxed, slouching in the stiff backed chair. Varela just smiled ear to ear in an evil grin when he saw us. He was daring us to try to break him. He was ready for us.

We questioned him for five hours, trying to get any information out of him about Little J's shooting and the whereabouts of Gaspick, but we got nothing. I couldn't even goad him into admitting he'd done it. Mickey held me back a few times. I just about wanted to tear Varela's arrogant eyes out of his skull. He didn't seem to believe me that he was being hunted down by the real MS-13 for using a name he shouldn't have. I asked him about Sanders and about all the money he was rumored to have. I even gave him a description of Lino's work that Ranger had showed me. He was surprised I knew all about his business, but he thought I was lying about the rest.

Finally, I was exhausted. Arnie Rupp had gotten no where with Pavia. I realized I probably would have done better if I'd started with him. They were about to let him go back to his cell, but I wanted one more crack at him. Mickey and I walked in, and I could have sworn that there was recognition in his eyes. Well, he'd seen me on the bridge, but maybe he'd seen me with Gaspick and Little J. I searched his eyes, and he shifted them from me to Mickey.

"You don't have anything to gain from continuing with Varela," I told him. I explained about the visitor to Trenton who would be looking him up soon, and he swallowed hard.

"I told him this was not a good idea," he said to me in heavily accented English.

"You could have a future. You're a very talented artist, Lino. You _will_ die…soon, if you don't start helping yourself instead of these thugs. And you know it."

"He says this is not our country, but he never speaks of going to South America. He says we will take this country, but that will take a lot of killing." He didn't look comfortable thinking about it.

"Are you a killer, Lino?" I asked.

He just shrugged and looked up at me and then at Mickey, then looked away. He was expected to be a killer. That much I could see.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" I asked him as gently as I could.

He looked down at the table and shrugged again. He wasn't going to admit anything to me. He wasn't that stupid.

I didn't get another word out of him after that. At least I knew I had Lino Pavia and Dimas Varela. He never corrected me on that.

Before I left the station, I checked on Stephanie. She had been released and her father had taken her home. I didn't know to whose home, but I suspected she was sleeping at her parent's house.

I shaded my eyes and pulled on my sunglasses as I walked down the station steps and headed across the parking lot towards my SUV. I knew Bob was way past ready to go out, and I dreaded what I would find shredded when I opened the door. I tried not to think about it. The SUV smelled faintly of Stephanie's Dolce Vita, and I was finding it hard to stay mad at her. The sun was bright and the air crisp as I drove down south down Clinton. All I wanted was a bag of doughnuts and some sleep.

_To be continued…_


	31. Chapter 31 Steph's POV Madame Bouvier

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

I woke up in my old bedroom at my parents' house. I was hoping the sun would be out and the birds would be singing, but the sky was gray and cloudy and the early bird did not seem to be interested in having worms for breakfast. 

I, on the other hand, thought breakfast might be just the thing. I looked at the clock. It was already 9:30. I figured Grandma Mazur and my dad were finished fighting over the bathroom by now. I shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, had a quick shower, fluffed my hair, got dressed, and headed to the kitchen.

Grandma Mazur was still sitting at the kitchen table eating pancakes.

"Hey! It's about time you got up. The phone has been ringing all morning. Word has it that you blew up another Porsche. I hope it wasn't that cutie Rangers Porsche."

I groaned.

"Is that Stephanie?" My mother asked, walking into the dining room with a stack of pancakes on a plate for me. She stopped in her tracks, taking a long look at me. "Good Lord," she gasped, "what on earth happened to your hair?"

"What?" I reached up and touched the blunt cut ends of my hair. "Oh, yeah."

"It's a Friday. You're never going to get in to see Mr. Alexander today." Grandma Mazur clucked her tongue. She was right. His schedule was always full on payday.

"Well, she's got to see some one," my mother said. "She can't go around like that for an entire weekend."

"Well, she'll just have to come with me to Clara's," Grandma said.

Grandma always went to Clara's Beauty Parlor. Clara had done my hair for my communion and for graduation, both of which had proven to be rather forgettable occasions. With any luck, this would be yet another forgettable hairstyle. If I was out of luck, I was going to end up looking like Grandma Mazur.

I ate my pancakes, and took my plate back into the kitchen. There was the ironing board, just as I had expected. The cupboard door nearby was closed, but I knew the handle would still be warm. My mother had definitely been tippling this morning. The phone rang again as I grabbed my jacket, a back-up bag, and the keys to Big Blue.

Grandma Mazur and I had no sooner walked into Clara's than all talking stopped and all eyes were on us. Bertie Greenstein and Betty Kuchta were under the dryers. Myra Biablocki, Emma Rogers, Mavis Rheinhart, Elsie Farnsworth, Betty Szajack, Emma Getz, Harriet Schnable, Mary Jo Klick, Myra Smulinski, Rose Kotman, Esther Moyer, Mabel Burlew, Lois Grizen, and Loretta Beeber were all there filling every seat in the house.

"Did you really steal Joesph Morelli's car?" Betty Szajack wanted to know.

"Was that Ranger's Porsche that got blown up?" Harriet Schnable asked.

"What the bleep happened to your hair?" Lois Grizen gasped.

"Did you really bring in Alphonse Ruzick last night?" Myra Biablocki asked with her usual cynical air.

"Yes, yes, it got slammed in Ruzick's car door, and yes," I said. I turned to Clara. "How long do I have to wait to get this mess straightened out?" I asked, pointing to my hair.

"For you, Honey, there ain't no wait," Clara said, getting up and waving me to the chair she was just sitting in.

I closed my eyes and waited for the torture to end. When I opened my eyes, my hair was shorter and curlier, but thankfully, I still looked like a young woman and not a senior citizen. I breathed a sigh of relief. This was definitely a gel, fluff, and go hairstyle. Actually, it was kind of cute. Not that I liked looking cute, but given my options this morning, and the fact that both Morelli and Ranger were going to kill me, I didn't think it was a bad idea after all.

"You have to ask Stephanie," I heard Grandma Mazur saying.

"Ask me what?"

"Rose says she heard that Morelli brought in a whole gang last night. We were wondering if those are the kids who have been taking potshots at the cops?"

"I don't know," I said. "I haven't talked to Morelli today."

"Hasn't anyone found Officer Gaspick yet?" Mabel asked.

"No," I said. "If they had wanted him dead, they would have shot him at the hospital. Morelli and I looked into his recent arrest records but didn't see anything suspicious. We have no idea who would want him or why."

"Wasn't it Gaspick who pulled over that kid who was dealing over on Chambers and then they got into a high-speed chase?"asked Harriett.

"Yes, I believe it was," said Betty. "There was a high-speed chase and then a shootout. What was the name of that kid that got killed?"

"Linus Bouvier. Word has it his mom was a showgirl down on Stark Street," Myra scoffed.

"Linus Bouvier?" I hadn't heard of him before. "How old was this kid?"

"Oh, I'd say he was about 16," said Betty. "It was in all the papers, but it was what they didn't say that was so interesting."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It was rumored that his father was none other than Lionel Boone, and the kid was dealing on the streets using Lionel's name without his permission and Lionel had to do a lot of clean up to make things right."

"Wait," I said, gripping the armrests of my seat. "Are you telling me that this Linus Bouvier was selling drugs on the street using the name Lionel Boone, Junior? LBJ?"

"Well, yeah. He was selling a lot more drugs that way than he would using his mother's name. Boone is a very influential figure..."

"I have to go," I said, jumping up from the chair, grabbing my bag, and racing for the door.

"Don't worry about me," Grandma Mazur called after me. "I'll get a ride."

I jumped in Big Blue, and drove straight over to Morelli's. The SUV was in the drive. I parked on the street and ran up to the door, ringing the bell. Morelli didn't answer, so I rang it again. A minute later I heard him padding down the stairs. He looked out the window, saw me, and wrenched the door open.

"I know who has Gaspick," I said before he had a chance to start yelling.

His eyes grew wide. He reached out, grabbed my arm, and yanked me into the house. "Talk."

"I was at Clara's this morning, and found out that the kid who was killed in the shootout last month may have been Lionel Boone Junior."

"What kid?"

"Linus Bouvier. His mother is a showgirl down on Stark Street. His father may be Lionel Boone. He was selling drugs as Lionel Boone Junior. LBJ. Sound familiar?"

Morelli raced up the stairs to get dressed with a cell phone in one hand. He was back down in less than three minutes, and we raced to the SUV. Morelli's cell phone rang again. He answered it, grimaced, and slap the phone shut.

"Your information is right on," he said. "Gaspick was the officer who was listed as responsible for Linus Bouvier's death because he pursued beyond the allowable limits and was also the one whose gun delivered the fatal wound according to ballistics. He was reprimanded but not charged with anything. If we are going to find Gaspick alive, we have to find Lionel Boone, and I mean right now."

When we got to the station, Morelli had Lino Pavia brought them back to the interrogation room. I wasn't going to be allowed in, so while I waited for Morelli, I called Lula at the office.

"What's up?" Lula asked. "Did you really blow up Batman's car?"

"Yes, but that's not why I'm calling. Do you know who Linus Bouvier is?"

"You mean LBJ? Sure, I know him. That is to say I did know him. Got himself capped month."

"Do you know if his father really was Lionel Boone?"

"Doubt even the kid's mother knows for sure. But I suppose he could be."

"Do you know the mother? She's supposed to be a showgirl down on Stark Street?"

"Sure. She goes by Madame Bouvier."

"I'm picking you up in 10 minutes, and I need you to go down to Stark Street with me and help me find Madame Bouvier."

"Oh no," Lula said. "There's no way you're getting me to go down on Stark in that big blue monstrosity you call a car."

I gritted my teeth. I forgot I had come down to the station with Morelli. But then I remembered, I still had his keys.

"Don't worry," I told Lula. "I'm borrowing Morelli's SUV."

"Girl, I know you're not crazy enough to steal that man's car again."

"Be out front when I get there," I told her, and hung up.

Twenty minutes later, Lula and I were driving down Stark Street looking for Madame Bouvier. I parked in front of a nameless storefront with painted windows that advertised GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS. We got out and I locked up, making sure the alarm was on.

This was Lula's territory, so she led the way. The interior was dark and smoky, and the chairs were still up on the tables. We sat at the bar, and a tired old man walked over to ask us what we wanted.

"You know where we can find Madame Bouvier?" Lula asked.

"Madame Bouvier? Haven't seen her much since her kid died. She's been heavily medicated. You can try her at home." He gave us an address, and we left.

The address was for an apartment on Sloane. It was a four-story brick apartment building. I had been in this neighborhood before. The walkway and curb in front was filled with trash, and my thoughts involuntarily turned to Ranger. I hadn't heard from Ranger. I got butterflies in my stomach just thinking about what he was going to do to me when he caught up with me. I tried to push those thoughts aside. I had to find out where Lionel Boone was, and I knew that this might be our only hope of reaching Gaspick in time.

We parked on the street and walked up the three flights to the door marked 3B. I knocked loudly on the door, and we heard someone on the inside yelling for us to go away.

"This here's Lula," Lula yelled back. "You get off your bony butt and open this door."

After a minute the door opened, and a sick looking, middle-aged white woman let us into the apartment. She seemed to recognize Lula after she got her eyes to focus. She was wearing a flowing silk kimono type robe, and her hair was wrapped up in a luxurious looking towel. Her nails were French manicured and she would have seemed elegant except that her smooth skin was a rather grayish color, her eyes were bloodshot, and her breath was way past stale.

"Mrs. Bouvier?" I asked.

"Miss," she corrected me, "or Madame, but I'm no Mrs."

"Stephanie Plum," I said, introducing myself. "I'm terribly sorry to hear about the loss of your son," I said. "I just found out today that he was also Lionel Boone's son."

"Well, that's what Lionel would like to believe," she said. "Lionel's been paying me for years to take care of that boy, and far be it from me to correct him." She stretched out on a silk couch covered with matching throw pillows and pulled a chenille blanket up to her chin.

"Do you think it's possible that Lionel would seek revenge against the police officer who shot your son?"

"If you're talking about the bounty he's put out, I don't know anything about it."

I felt my eyebrows shoot into my scalp. I turned to Lula. She was registering the same thoughts. Madame Bouvier with high as a kite, and this was as good a time as any to get information out of her.

"What bounty?"

"You know, the bounty on the mounties...he's got 'em lined up like a shooting gallery with price tags on all of 'em."

"How does that work?" I asked her. "Is it like a points system? A patrolman is worth less than a sergeant say?"

"Yeah," she said. "Something like that."

"So, what do you think a patrolman would be worth?"

She laughed. "They ain't worth nothing to me. But I guess if you were a kid on the street, and you are desperate enough for money to kill someone, they might be worth about $500."

"So they're worth more dead than alive right?"

"Damn straight."

"Do you know why they might want to take a cop alive? Say, the cop that shot your son for instance? Do you think Boone had any special plans for him?"

"Couldn't say." She lit up a joint and chugged down some Jack Daniels. This woman was feeling no pain. From the looks of her apartment interior, she had enough money to live this way for a long time. She may have been living on Sloan, but her tastes were Park Avenue.

"Look here," Lula said to her. "We're young and we're desperate. Where can we find Lionel?"

"You don't want to go looking for Lionel," she assured us. "Not less you've got something to offer. And girl," she said looking Lula up and down, "you got way too much to offer." Lula was a full figured woman dressed in Spandex three sizes too small. "But you," she said to me, "are just about his taste."

Great. Just what I needed. I had the distinct feeling I was about to be used as bait again. The question was, who was going to bail me out this time?

_To be continued..._


	32. Chapter 32 Priceless

_**  
**All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Sorry about all the typos...not that I don't always have typos, but there have been more than usual the last few chapters. My hubby got me a voice recognition program, and I'm still working on training it and using it. I'm having a little trouble getting commas where I want them, and sometimes the editing is choppy. Remember it's just for fun. Bear with me. Thanks!

**Morelli's POV**

I wasn't surprised that Lionel Boone had a son. I was surprised that no one around me knew about it. Even Lula knew, but not Trenton's finest. He'd grown up well protected, that was for sure. Boone was invested in this kid, and he was going to demand retribution. He had definitely risen on my list to suspect #1.

I did all the usual searches on Linus Bouvier, and found that his birth certificate listed father as unknown. His mother had the usual priors for prostitution and other minor offenses. Nothing in my searches definitively linked him to Lionel Boone and I wasn't likely to be granted a post-mortem to verify his DNA.

I knew I would get nowhere with Varela, so I had Pavia pulled out, of his cell and once again had him brought down to the interrogation room. It was only hours before their arraignment. I had to work fast.

I pulled a photograph of Gaspick with his family from my desk drawer. He was not in uniform. This was a photograph of a family man smiling surrounded by his loved ones. It appeared to be a family barbecue. I stuck the picture in my breast pocket, and walked down the hall to the interrogation room. I looked through the window and saw Pavia sitting in cuffs in the chair, drumming his fingers nervously on the table.

I entered with my cop face on, and walked in calm as could be. I pulled out the chair across from him at the table and sat down. We were eye to eye. 

"I learned something interesting today," I told him. "It seems that Lionel Boone had a son."

He did not seem to be surprised by this news.

"You knew he had a son?"

"LBJ."

"Do you know what his birth name is?" I asked him.

"No."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"A few times."

"Do you know what happened to him?"

"Mata pollo," he said with a shrug.

I raised my eyebrows to let him know I did not understand.

"Killed like a chicken," he said.

"Why do you say that?"

"He ran like a chicken. He was killed like a chicken."

"After a high-speed chase, he was involved in a shoot-out with police. He was armed and he refused to surrender. Do you know who the officer was that shot him?"

He shrugged. I pulled the photograph from my pocket and slid across the table to him. He didn't want to look at it, so I tapped my finger on the table, forcing his eyes down with mine.

"This is Officer Gaspick," I told him, tapping my finger just above Gaspick's image. "And this is his family. I need you to tell me what you know about money being offered in exchange for killing a cop."

He shrugged again.

"Your arraignment is only a few hours away. You have a decision to make. If you can help me locate Officer Gaspick, I can help you escape the fate that is awaiting Varela. Whether he is out on the street were behind bars, he is a dead man. There's nothing I can do to help him. But you are a talented young man, you have a future if you would open your eyes. It's up to you. I know you don't believe I _would_ help you or that I _can_ help you, but the question is whether or not you are willing to take a chance. Because this is the only chance you are ever going to get. You have an opportunity to save your life and the life of this man." I tapped the picture again. "If you don't help me right now, his blood is on your hands."

Pavia shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "If I help you, I am dead when I hit the streets."

"If you help me, you won't have to hit the streets."

"I don't know he is now. I only know who probably has him. And you already know that. I don't have anything to offer you."

"I need to know what you know. Because I believe that you can provide testimony in court, to put Lionel Boone away for the murders of my fellow officers. And you know he has killed countless others. The streets you have been living on are what they are because of men like Lionel Boone. If you will agree to give testimony against Boone and Sanders, I can see to it that you spend the remaining years, at least until you turn 18, in a protective home rather than in Juvie."

Pavia hung his head and was silent for a few minutes thinking. I dug the cuffs key out of my pocket and reached across the table, unlocking his cuffs. He seemed surprised but compliant.

"Okay," he said. "Promise me I won't have to be in the lockup with Varela or anyone else from my crew."

"Agreed."

"Varela started working for Sanders a few months ago. At first he just sold drugs and guns. There was some rivalry between Sanders and Boone. Boone was selling out of a halfway house in midtown, and the boy's home near Central. He was using LBJ to get easy access and to carry the goods. LBJ was the middle-man for Boone. Sanders was using our gang to do the same. Varela was promised big bonuses for making sure that we outsold Boone. In order to do that, Varela started telling people on the streets that he had connections in El Salvador. He always wanted to be MS-13, and suddenly he decided that we were. He made me start with the tattoos. And his lies started getting bigger and bigger. He started believing them himself. I try to talk to him, but he was obsessed.

"Varela decided that he'd had enough competition with LBJ. He set him up. He had one of our new guys pretend to be a buyer, and set up a deal and then ratted him out to the cops. He knew LBJ would have drugs and guns on him. He thought the whole thing went down better than he had planned to when LBJ ended up dead. Then he got an added bonus. Sanders and Boone had made a bargain. They made a truce. Boone was offering cash on the heads of the any cops that Sanders brought down."

"So Boone's piece of the pie isn't drugs and guns anymore, it's enforcement?"

"Yeah."

"What exactly was the deal Boone made to Sanders?" I asked.

"The contract was for $500 per patrolman, $1000 for sergeants and lieutenants, and $5,000 for the upper crust, captains to chief."

"So, what do you think a homicide detective would be worth?"

He shrugged. The question was definitely making him uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable to. I hated the thought that I was only worth $500 on the street.

"So the chief is worth the most?"

"No. This guy was." He tapped Gaspick's picture again.

"What was he worth?"

"He was worth $100,000 dead. That was the only offer. But when he didn't die, it became $500,000 alive."

I swallowed hard. Half a million? For Gaspick? If we'd known that, he'd have been hospitalized in another state, maybe another country. "It seems like Boone was afraid we might make Gaspick disappear."

"Yes."

"Do you know who took Gaspick from the hospital?"

"No. It wasn't us."

"I didn't think your fearless leader would give up so easily."

"He hadn't given up."

"So, someone got the jump on you?"

"Yeah. Boone has other guys. We were in competition."

"And you have no idea who it could've been?"

"No. Someone good. We tried to get him a couple times, but we couldn't even get in past security. We would have drawn too much attention and we'd have been trapped."

"How did you know where Gaspick was being held?"

"From Sanders."

"And how did he know?"

"Don't know. We were told to wait, and then we were told it was time to do it, and we were trying different things to get a man inside when we saw all the commotion and overheard from the cops in the building that he was gone. That's how we knew it was over, so we gave up."

Detective Bell knocked on the door and stuck his head in. "It's time."

I escorted Pavia down the hall. Before entering the courthouse, I had to replace the handcuffs. Bell and I discussed arrangements to be made to keep him separated from his gang while they were being held following the arraignment. Then we escorted him back to the holding area where the group was being taken to the courthouse.

I needed some air before heading over. So I walked back to the lobby looking for Steph. I asked around and was told that she hadn't been seen for some time. I went out to the parking lot and looked for the SUV, not at all surprised to see that it was missing. I instinctively flipped open my phone before remembering that her phone had been fried. I checked the last received call. It must have been Lula's phone. I took a shot and hit redial.

_To be continued…_


	33. Chapter 33 Steph's POV Fingernails

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

Lula's phone rang.

"Yo," Lula answered. She pursed her lips and cringed. "Yes, she's here." She covered the phone with her hand. "It's Officer Hot," she said.

"Don't you mean Officer Hottie?"

"Not today. Today he's just hot."

Great. I took the phone. "Hi," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "How's it going?" .

"Funny you should ask," he growled. "It seems I'm not going anywhere because you have stolen my SUV again."

"I didn't steal it. I had the keys."

"You have the keys because I left them in the car last time you stole it."

"I borrowed it. You can have it back whenever you want."

"I know I can have it back. It's my car. I can have it towed back here in 10 minutes, Stephanie."

Gulp.

"Do you know what I am right now?"

"Uh…"

"I'm a Trenton PD homicide detective with no means of efficient transportation. It's not a good situation for me to be in, Stephanie. My supervisors don't take kindly to that sort of thing. It's considered to be irresponsible. Do you understand me?"

"Uh-huh."

"I'm going to an arraignment hearing, and when I get back you will be in my office waiting for me. With my keys. And my SUV will be in this lot."

"Yes sir," I said, snapping him a salute. It was a good thing he couldn't see me being a smart-ass. As it was, he had already had the final word and disconnected.

I hated it when he talked to me like I was one of his junior officers. But then again, I hated it when he treated me like I was outside of his inner circle. Truth was, I wanted to be treated like an equal, the way he treated Ranger. He wouldn't have chewed Ranger out like that. But neither Morelli nor Ranger felt that I was their equal. Then again, Ranger and Morelli didn't borrow each other's vehicles and call each other to bail them out of situations they've gotten themselves into. They just exchanged information. I was a little needier.

I sat up a little straighter, mustering my courage again. If I wanted to be treated like an equal, it was time to start acting like one. I was going to get Sanders and Boone myself with my own team. My rules, my money, my power.

I had a plan. Problem was I didn't have the power to pull it off. I needed a cop with clout to make a deal with Madame Bouvier. I needed someone even higher up the food chain than Morelli. I needed the Chief.

Lula and I made our way back down to the street and headed towards Morelli's SUV. I stopped in my tracks as my Spidey sense went through the roof. I looked up and down the street, but I didn't see anyone other than a homeless woman pushing a shopping cart and a drunken bum urinating on a Begonia. I took my time fishing, Morelli's keys out of my bag before crossing the street. I definitely had a bad feeling. I hit the alarm button on the key fob. The alarm beeped and the lights flashed, but nothing happened.

"What's up, girl?" Lula asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I've just got this feeling."

Suddenly the drunken bum seem to have recovered his senses, as well as his coordination. He sprinted towards us, wrenched the keys from my hand, raced across the street and launched himself into the SUV.

"Hey!" Lula screamed after him.

BOOM! The SUV exploded with a deafening roar and a ball of fire. Lula and I stood there with our mouths hanging open, as the front bumper came to rest against the curb at our feet.

"Oh, shit!" Lula said. "Officer Hottie is not going to like this."

"No kidding," I said. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to throw up. Morelli was definitely not going to like this. It was bad enough that I had just blown up Ranger's Porsche and lost Lula her Firebird, not to mention that I was still without transportation. And this time there was an unknown occupant inside the vehicle. Morelli really hated paperwork, and this was going to require a lot of it.

We heard the sirens approaching, and within minutes I was face to face with Carl Costanza. He never missed an opportunity to embarrass me.

"One more, and I'm going to have to call Guinness," Costanza said.

"Yeah," his partner Big Dog said.

"There won't be any more," I said. "Morelli is going to kill me."

"I don't think so," Costanza said.

"Why's that?"

"Think about it. You just saved his life."

"You think this was an attempt to take out another cop?" Lula asked.

"Looks like it."

"How would they know that this is Morelli's SUV?"

"I don't suppose you left his Kojak light on top of the SUV did you?"

"No!"

"Was it laying inside the vehicle where someone looking through the window could see it?"

"Maybe," I said, biting my lower lip. I was hoping Costanza was wrong, but fearing he was right.

Lula and I caught a ride back to the cop shop with Costanza and Big Dog. Morelli was still at the arraignment hearing, so I knocked on the Chief's door. I explained about Madame Bouvier, and made arrangements for a plea bargain if she would lead me to Lionel Boone and agreed to testify against him in court. In exchange, her record would be wiped clean and she would receive the reward money being offered for any information leading to an arrest in the recent cases. We made plans to carry out the plan later the next night. Apparently Saturday was the only night Boone entertained his lady friends. I found that hard to believe, but I went along with it since I didn't have any choice.

When I stepped out of the office, Lula came running down the hall looking a bit frantic.

"Officer Hottie has been looking for you."

"He's mad isn't he?"

"Oh yeah," she said. "You better get in there."

I followed her down the hall to Morelli's office. He was sitting at his desk in his full dress uniform, drumming his fingers on the desk, and I could tell that he was silently counting to himself to keep from strangling me. He pointed to the chairs in front of him and Lula and I sat down. It felt like a déjà vu from a few days before.

"Have a nice day?" He asked, his voice driping with sarcasm.

"No!" I said. "And I don't need any bullying from you, Morelli."

"Sounds like you had a full day. First you ran down our only lead without me. Then you stole my SUV, _again_. Then you blew up my SUV. Then you went behind my back and had a private discussion with the Chief. What was that about?"

"Nothing," I said, trying to act nonchalant.

"You're lying," he said. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Who me?" I said.

"Shit." He ran his hand through his hair. "Now what?"

"Nothing!" I said. "I can handle it."

"Handle what?"

"None of your business."

"In that case, I have something I need to show you," he said, pulling a small gift box out of his top desk drawer. "While you were visiting with the Chief, this showed up."

He handed me the box. It was wrapped in gold paper with a pretty gold bow on top. I opened it and looked inside. At first, I couldn't make out what it was. It looked like a collection of large fish scales covered in dried blood. I looked unquestioningly at Morelli.

"Human fingernails," he said.

I shivered. I peered back into the box, mostly out of morbid curiosity. For the second time that day, I had an overwhelming urge to throw up. I did a quick mental calculation and realized there were more than 10 nails in this box. I looked back up at Morelli.

"Toenails too," he said, answering my unspoken question.

"Do you think these belong to Gaspick?"

"I don't know for sure yet, but that would be my guess. We won't know until we get testing back from the lab." I closed the box and handed it back to him. "Whatever the lead is that you're running down, you had better tell me about it."

"You won't like it," I told him.

"Since when has that stopped you?" he asked.

Good point.


	34. Chapter 34 The Hitter

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

An hour later, Gazarra gave us all a ride back to my house. We got out of the car, and Stephanie headed towards Big Blue. I walked up behind her and grabbed the keys.

"Hey!" She said.

I unlocked the door, and pushed her through, all the way over to the passenger side. Then I slid behind the wheel and turned over the engine. Lula piled in the back. I unceremoniously dropped Lula and Stephanie off the bonds office, and then drove Big Blue back to my house. I figured she owed me a car.

I unlocked my front door, walk into my living room, and found Mooch lying in my recliner. The evening news was on, and Mooch was sound asleep. I turned off the TV, put my foot down on the foot rest, and brought him sitting straight up in the chair. The snoring stopped abruptly, and one eye opened. He looked warily around.

"What's up?" He asked, opening both eyes.

"That's what I was just going to ask you," I said. "Where are the boys?"

"Upstairs, I guess," he said, looking around.

"Why don't you go, make sure," I suggested. It was too quiet.

I went to the kitchen and made myself a roast beef sandwich from leftovers my mother had brought over a few days ago. I had just flicked open a beer when Mooch suddenly ran back into the room.

"They're gone!" He yelled excitedly. "Where the hell did they go?"

"I didn't see your van outside," I said.

Mooch checked his pockets for his keys, and came up empty.

"Now what?" Mooch asked, giving me and exasperated palm's up gesture.

"Now, I'm going to eat my sandwich," I said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "Then, we'll go out and have a look."

I had a sneaking suspicion that, given access to a truck full of paint, Lucas and Joe had decided it was high time that they hit their _heaven spot_ in an attempt to make themselves famous. The problem was, I had no idea exactly where this _heaven spot_ was.

I had a map laying out on the table next to a notebook in which I was trying to make out a reasonable search route when we heard the van pull up outside.

"Sounds like they came back on their own," I said to Mooch.

"Sounds like," he agreed, jumping up and racing for the back door.

I figured if Mooch was going to be the new House Monster, he would have to learn how to handle these kids, so I just stayed out of it. A few minutes later they all walked in the back door and into the kitchen.

"Sit," Mooch told them, pointing to two of the empty chairs at the table. "Tell him."

Lucas and Joe looked a bit shaken. They looked at each other, silently trying to decide who is going to do the talking.

"We went to do some painting," Joe said.

"I figured," I said.

"Yeah, well, there was this guy," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "This big mean-looking Hispanic guy came and asked us where he could find Dimas Varela."

I sat up in my seat. "Describe this guy."

"He was mid-30s, about 5'9", dark skin, shaved head, _lots_ of tattoos."

"What kind of tattoos?"

Lucas gave a slight grimace. "This guy had tattoos on his face."

"Let me guess. MS-13?"

"Yeah," Joe said. Lucas nodded. "He had his shirt off, and he had prison tatts too. Real ones."

"Was he carrying?"

"He had a semi auto in his waistband, in the front, fully exposed."

"When he asked about Varela, what did you tell him?"

"We told him we had never heard of him."

"Did he believe you?"

"Maybe. We told him we had just moved here from New York. This guy was no local."

I had to agree. Facial tattoos are hard to forget. I had no doubt this was the hitter from El Salvador.

"If I wanted to find this guy, can you tell me where I might be able to locate him?"

Joe and Lucas looked at each other, having another unspoken conversation as to whether or not to disclose the location of their _heaven spot_. Again, it was Joe who spoke up. "He was on foot, in the vicinity of the state prison."

"Did you get your piece done?"

"No," Lucas said, with obvious disappointment. "As soon as that guy left, we took off."

"Good."

"We need to have a serious discussion about the House Rules," Mooch said, snatching his keys back off the table and shoving them deep into his front pocket.

I grabbed the phone and called it in. If we could pick this guy up tonight, it would save me a lot of trouble.

I got up from the table, and went back into the living room. I saw my mail sitting on the table by the front door. I walked over and started rifling through it. Bill, bill, junk mail, and a flyer for an NYPD pre-auction. Cops got first bid on goods and vehicles seized from drug dealers and other criminal elements. After the pre-auction, the items not bid on would go to an open auction. I was not on a mailing list for these auctions. I checked for a mailing label. The flyer had not been mailed. Someone had just stuck it in my mailbox, which is technically a federal offense. Two items were highlighted in yellow marker. I looked the entire flyer over front and back, flipped open my cell phone, and dialed Ranger.

"Yo."

"So, what's the name of your insurance agent?"

"Don't tell me you weren't fully insured on that SUV."

"Get serious," I told him. "With Stephanie around, I _have_ to have full coverage. Fire, flood, and forces of nature. But I was thinking I could use a little more."

"Automotive?"

"And marine."

"Real estate?"

"Might be," I said. I could sense Ranger's guilty sneer over the airwaves.

"This guy's the best, but he's not cheap," he said, giving me a name and number. "Worth every penny," he said with a chuckle.

"Yes, she is."


	35. Chapter 35 Steph's POV Microwave Burrito

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Steph's POV 

With Joe mad at me, and because I was still a little freaked out that he kept barging into my apartment the middle of the night claiming someone was in there, I had Connie drop me off at my parents house. There were two advantages to this. There would be food, and Dad could drive me around in the morning. The drawback was listening to my mother rant and rave about the phone calls she had no doubt received all day long from the Burg grapevine while she ironed the sheets and pillowcases.

There was no point putting it off, so I ambled into kitchen. There was the ironing board, still warm, but as luck would have it Friday nights my mom played bingo with my cousin Maureen, who I was frequently reminded worked at the Button Factory and never got shot at…ever. If I was in bed before Mom got back, I was safe.

Since I had missed dinner, I was in the kitchen scrounging around in the refrigerator when Grandma Mazur and her boyfriend, Carl, came in.

"Hey! It's our fearless bounty hunter," he said.

"Stephanie!" Grandma said. "What a nice surprise."

"What are you guys up to?" I asked, not sure I really wanted to know when I was just about to eat.

"Carl took me to the movies," Grandma said.

"Yeah," Carl said. "Pet Cemetery, was playing at the Multiplex."

I decided not to ask for a movie review.

"I was wondering. Do you ever make anything that explodes that wasn't previously alive?" I asked Carl.

"Look what?"

"Like say, a microwave burrito?"

A big smile slowly spread across Coglin's face. "I could arrange that."

"Is this a bounty hunter thing?" Grandma asked.

"Yes, and come to think of it I could use your help too."

I woke up late, and was glad to see the sun was shining and the birds were singing. I needed some good karma today. I stumbled into the bathroom, relieved to find it empty. I took a shower, did the gel and blow dryer thing, got dressed, and headed downstairs. Just as I reached the foyer, the front doorbell rang.

I looked outside, and saw Ranger. He was dressed in his usual SWAT black, his dark hair a careless mess of perfection, and his ESP clearly on full alert. I look to the street and saw a black Humvee and a black Porsche Turbo that made the one I blew up look like a Flintstone mobile.

I open the door cautiously, leaving the chain in place.

"Hi," I said, giving him a little smile and a finger wave.

He eyed the chain and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. "Afraid?"

"Who me?"

That got me a grin. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Sure." I shut the door or unhooked the chain and opened the door again, backing up to let Ranger in. "What's up?"

"Why didn't you call me?" He no longer looked amused.

"Connie said you were…indisposed."

"You still should've called me."

"You're right. I'm sorry. And I'm very sorry about the Porsche. It was insured, right?"

"You know I wasn't worried about the car."

"I'm fine."

"So I see." He gestured towards the driveway. "Where's Big Blue?"

"Morelli needed it," I told him. "I kind of owe him a car too."

"I heard." He looked me over her head to toe. "Turn around." He made a circling gesture with his finger.

I turned around slowly, and then stopped, wondering what he was looking for. "What?"

"Nice haircut." He gave me the almost smile. "It's cute."

"You think I'm cute?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No. Your haircut is cute. I think you're dangerous."

Now it was my turn to smile. "So, you're not mad at me then?"

"Babe." He backed me into the door and kissed me. When the world stopped spinning, I looked down to see a new key fob in my hand. "It's for the Humvee." He spun me around and opened the door. "Try to make this one last a little longer this time, okay?"

I walked Ranger to the curb. "Where you going?" I asked.

"Business, Babe." He slid into the Turbo and took off. The Man of Mystery strikes again.

Now that I was once again mobile, it was time to get to work. I grabbed my bag, and headed to Kuntz Appliance.

Bernie was helping a customer, so I busied myself by perusing the microwave ovens. When Bernie looked up, I gave him a finger wave, and he gave me a little nod in return. By the time he rang up the customer, I had picked out the microwave that suited my purposes. I grabbed one that was still in the box, and followed him towards the back room.

"You need a microwave?" Bernie asked.

"What I need is a bug in a microwave," I explained.

"Finally, you've given me enough space to work with," Bernie sighed with relief. "When do you need it?"

"An hour?"

"You are one high-pressure woman to work for." I wasn't sure that was a compliment.

"Can you do it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Well then, come back in and hour," he said.

I climbed back into the Humvee and motored over to Carl's house. He lived in a working-class neighborhood in North Trenton. It was easy to find. Redbrick, single-family house with mustard trim with a sign out front that read Coglin's Taxidermy.

I knocked on the door, and Coglin answered. He must've seen me coming. He waved me in happily, so I figured he must be done with his little project.

"So? Where is it?" I asked.

"Where do you think it is? In the freezer." Duh.

"So you think this will work?"

"Like a charm."

"Have you ever done this before?"

"What do you think?" He asked with a sly grin.

"Never mind," I told him. I didn't want to know.

I drove my new Humvee back to Kuntz Appliance with a Styrofoam cooler full of frozen burritos in a plastic grocery bag. I picked up the modified microwave, and went back home for my secret weapon. Grandma Mazur.

"Am I dressed okay?" Grandma asked, descending the stairs wearing what looked like black leotards and a black turtleneck.

"Ummm… you do realize that we are doing this in the daytime, don't you?"

"Well, you bounty hunters always wear black, don't you?"

"You know I always wear jeans and a T-shirt."

"That Ranger fella always wears black," she said, sounding disappointed that I didn't approve of her outfit.

"I don't need you to look like Ranger. I need you to look like someone's grandma."

"Oh yeah, I forgot, I'm supposed to be undercover. Give me a second."

She turned around and went back up the stairs. A few minutes later she reappeared in a floral print dress with a thin belt at the waist, and her stockings rolled around her ankles. Her shoes were sensible, and she even had a little hat perched on top of her blue hair. Very Mayberry. She looked like a wrinkled and severely deflated Aunt Bea. All she needed was a pair of white gloves.

"Perfect!" I said. "We're off."

After helping Grandma climb into the Hummer, I headed for the fire station. As promised, Kenny was there in street clothes and driving a station wagon. I hopped out and handed him the microwave. He loaded into the back of the station wagon which was full of all kinds of clothing and assorted junk. It rather looked as if he had been living out of it.

"You know what to do?" I asked.

He nodded. "I'm from the Red Cross. Right?"

"Right."

I climbed back into the Humvee, and drove us to within two blocks of the boys' home and where Joe and Lucas had been living. I let Grandma out, and watched her carefully as she walked down the street carrying the bag of frozen burritos. She walked fearlessly right up across the yard and addressed the boys that were standing on the porch.

"Would you boys like some burritos?" she asked them. "I bought these by mistake. I can't eat them you know. They give me gas."

Before she had the words out of her mouth, the bag was in their hands, and they had all disappeared into the house. Mission accomplished. Grandma was all smiles as she continued walking down the street. She turned the corner a block away, and I motored down the street and picked her up.

"That was rather disappointing," Grandma said reached over the seat to help heave her up into the Hummer.

"Why's that?"

"Well, it all happened so fast, I did even have a chance to really be undercover."

"That's because you're so good," I told her.

"You think so?"

"Absolutely," I told her.

"Next time you, do you think we can shoot someone?"

"No!" I said. "I told you, I _almost_ never shoot anyone."

"What a shame."

We drove back around the block, and watched and waited until we saw smoke pouring out from a side window.

"I can't believe that worked," Grandma said.

"We're not home yet," I told her.

We waited for the sound of the fire trucks approaching. Finally, we heard them in the distance. Buckey led the way inside. Several other firemen followed. They only took fire extinguishers, no hoses, which was good. I certainly didn't want to be responsible for any serious damage. I was relieved when Buckey emerged carrying what was left of a small microwave.

Buckey made a phone call, and a few minutes later Kenny rolled up behind the fire truck in and his personal station wagon. He crossed the lawn and stood talking to Stanton for several minutes. Then he walked back to his station wagon, pulled the modified microwave out of the back, and proudly presented it to Stanton. Stanton disappeared with the microwave into the house, and Kenny returned to his vehicle and drove away. A few minutes later, Buckey emerged, stored the fire extinguishers back onto the end of the truck, and the firemen drove away. Suddenly all was well with the world.

I switched on the receiver, which had once been a walkie-talkie. At first all I heard was static, but after playing with the dials for a few minutes, I got a clear signal. We listened for several minutes, but we didn't hear anything good. Truthfully, stake outs had never been my thing. And a stakeout with Grandma would be unbearable. I would have to come back later. Besides, I had to go to the bathroom.

"Well," I said. "It doesn't sound like anything is going on right now. What do you say I take you back home?"

"I suppose you'd better. I'd hate for Carl to see me dressed like this. He thinks I'm a sex pot you know."

Yeesh!

While I was at the house, I ran up to my old room, and grabbed an old boom box sitting by the window. It had occurred to me that I needed a way to record any conversations that I overheard so that I could play them back for Morelli. If it was a good enough recording, maybe he could take it to the judge and get a warrant. If Morelli could get Stanton, Stanton would lead us to Sanders. I knew I was reaching, but my rent was coming due...fast.

Not to mention that I was running up of another tab with Ranger, and there was no telling what his price tag would be. Part of me was curious. Part of me was terrified. Either way, part of me was going to be disappointed.

As I made a mental list of anxieties, I remembered that I was going after Lionel Boone in a matter of hours. True to form, Morelli had squeezed the details out of me. Together, we have formulated a plan, and he had made me promise not to deviate from that plan without talking to him first. It was lunch time. He was probably at Pino's right now, bringing Richie up to date.

Thinking about Pino's was making me hungry. I was headed down Hamilton, when the Hummer slowed and pulled to the curb in front of Tasty Pastry. I needed a doughnut, and the selection at Tasty Pastry _never_ disappointed.

_To be continued…_


	36. Chapter 36 Morelli in the Sights

_allAll characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Morelli's POV 

It was Saturday morning, but you couldn't tell it from the hustle and bustle inside the station. I was sitting at my desk in my office, having called in to find out the cash out value of my 401(k) and verify the market value of my house. After determining my total cash value, alive as opposed to dead, I moved on to business.

I was doing background checks on the first two shooters and their families. I was looking for a connection between these young shooters and Boone, Sanders, or Stanton. The first shooter was Mark Raguzzo. He was ten years old, with dark eyes, dark hair…as Italian as I was. I was not surprised to learn he was from a family with a long history of domestic violence. I was surprised, however, when I discovered that he and his father, Anthony Raguzzo, had spent several weeks off and on at the St. Lawrence halfway house. I checked the management on that halfway house, and as luck would have it, it was the same name Bell had noted on his report of Mt. Cooper's. I had a connection to Stanton.

I checked on the fourteen-year-old joy-rider. His name was Dewayne Jackson. He was a tall, thin Black boy with a shaved head and pants so baggy he kept walking out of them. I called over to Juvie and talked to his caseworker. It turned out he claimed to be a member of the Bloods, but he was still a wanna-be and hadn't been officially jumped in yet at the time of his arrest. After a little more checking, I uncovered another surprise. Dewayne Jackson had been a resident at Mt. Cooper's for two years before being placed in a temporary foster home. He had a history of domestic violence against the other boys, which was cited as the reason for his recent placement in emergency foster care. I had no doubt that Jackson had done some work for Stanton, and possibly still had a connection.

According to Pavia, Varela killed Grossman. Pavia had been an eyewitness, as I had explained to the judge. I knew he was telling the truth the moment I saw Varela's face in that court room. There was no remorse. Only outrage that he was being sold out by his number one.

Pavia had given a full statement outlining the plot to kill Officer Grossman. Varela had set out to find a cop specifically to collect on the bounty which he thought was being paid by Sanders. I knew Sanders was taking a large cut from what he would collect from Boone. That's how it always worked. The kids did all the work and took all the risks, and Sanders got paid.

Varela and Pavia and two other gang members stole a car - a vintage souped up Mustang - and drag raced it up and down the streets in their neighborhood in hopes of attracting a cop. When none materialized, Varela sent a member of his gang to call in a complaint from a pay phone. When this again failed to result in police intervention in his neighborhood, rather than being glad to be under the radar, Varela was outraged. If he had any reservations about killing a cop before, they had evaporated. The four loaded up into the Mustang, and drove towards North Clinton. Officer Grossman had a car pulled over on a side street behind an Oriental market. They waited until the car pulled away, and as Grossman prepared to leave the scene, they rear-ended him with the Mustang. While Grossman was disoriented and exiting his vehicle, Varela raced to the driver's door and shot him in the forehead, execution style. Then he shot him three more times in the chest.

Grossman only netted him $200.00. Sanders apparently kept $300.00. Varela wanted more…much more. So Sanders told Varela about the bounty on Gaspick. Varela wanted the prize, not only for the money, but to keep any other gang from claiming it. He did his research. Once he knew Gaspick's beat, he located one of the weakest members of the dominant gang in that area, which was the Latin Kings. Varela's crew broke into a house across the street from Little J.'s house, and waited for him to come home. Even though he was in the company of other gang members, Varela couldn't wait, so he took a shot with the .22, intending only to wound Little J. enough to bring Gaspick into his sights. Little J. did exactly what Varela had wanted. He cried and flopped around like a little bird with a broken wing while the others ran.

When Gaspick and I arrived together, Varela almost danced with glee. He waited for us to call in the address and report that we had verified a shooting had occurred before shooting Gaspick. And when it appeared to him that more officers were about to converge on the scene, he was positively giddy. He had his sights on me, but when he tried to fire, the rifle had jammed.

Varela usually used a handgun. Instead, he had chosen to use an AR-15 with a scope that he'd taken during a home robbery the night before. He had planned to pick us off from a distance. But he wasn't proficient with the AR-15, and he had leaned on the magazine while balancing the gun on the window sill. This had caused the rifle to jam due to a double load. While he struggled to clear it, I had a chance to pull Gaspick to safety, call it in requesting backup, and by the time Varela had the cartridges cleared, Costanza, Big Dog, and I had our guns drawn and were sniffing them out. Pavia said that we had been within one hundred feet of them, and that he had practically had to lie on the rifle to keep Varela from trying to shoot at us. He would have given them away in his insanity.

As incredibly helpful as all of this information was, Pavia did not know who had abducted Gaspick from the hospital, and he had no idea where he may be held, although we both agreed that it appeared Lionel Boone was behind the abduction.

My only other lead, though trivial, was that a seven-year-old boy had been paid five dollars to bring the gift box with the fingernails and toenails into the station. He had described the man who paid him as white, brown hair, dressed in a suit, and driving a black car. He said the man was a stranger. Apparently the kid was just walking down the street a block away and was chosen at random. We got no prints off the box but the boy's.

I was deep in thought when my cell phone rang. It was Steph.

"I've got it!" She said excitedly.

"Got what exactly?" I was hoping for the winning lottery ticket. The jackpot was $23-million.

"I've got evidence that Stanton is dealing guns."

"What's the evidence?"

"I got a bug inside the boys home, and I have Stanton on tape talking about guns that he wants one of the boys to deliver to a house in North Trenton after dark tonight."

"Cupcake, we know he's dealing guns. I can pick up the boy, but I want to catch Stanton red-handed. Does he have the guns in the house?"

"I don't know," she said, sounding a little deflated. "What I was thinking was that you could take this tape to the judge, and you could get a search warrant and then you could nail Stanton."

"An illegal bugging of a residence is not something that I want to bring to the judges attention."

"You do it all the time. Don't even try to tell me that you don't. You've probably even got my apartment bugged. So why is it different when I do it?"

"There is a big difference between what I do in order to obtain information for my own purposes and what I would present to a judge as evidence in order to secure a warrant. Even if it is accurate, it isn't admissible evidence."

"Well then, Mr. Smarty-Pants, what's your grand plan for getting the goods on Stanton?"

"Remember when I threatened to turn in a complaint on the state of the dwelling to the city inspectors? Well I turned it in today with a request that I be present during their inspection."

"Okay, but did you know that the organization Stanton works for has a warehouse where they allow homeless people to store their personal property? I'm betting that that's where the guns are, and if I listen long enough, maybe I'll find out where it is."

"It's attached to the St. Lawrence homeless shelter, which is run by the same organization that runs the boys' home. I already been down and had a look through the windows. If they're hiding any guns in there, it's not a very lucrative business."

"When were you planning to tell me any of this?" She was fuming. "I thought we were working together on this. I thought we were partners."

"I just found out about it this morning thanks to Arnie Rupp, the Violent Crimes supervisor. He'd read Bell's report and it came up on an unrelated search that St. Lawrence and Mt. Cooper's are both run by the same umbrella organization, and Stanton is listed as being a board member at St. Lawrence."

"Sounds like you have it all wrapped up! I guess you don't need me then!" She slapped her phone shut.

Crap! How did I get back into the doghouse again just by doing my job?

I called her back, but I got voice mail.

"Cupcake, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was still working out the details. I still don't know where Boone has Gaspick. I'm trying to get to Stanton to find Sanders to hopefully get to Boone. I know we have a plan, but there's no such thing as having too many leads on a case like this. We have a few hours before tonight, so I'm going to take your advice and check out the warehouse more thoroughly. Love you."

I stopped back by Rupp's office to see if he wanted to go. He indicated that he would, but his phone rang and he got tied up. He signaled me that it would be quite sometime before he was free. I nodded, and gave him the sign that I was going to go without him. He nodded back and gave me the thumbs up.

I couldn't believe I was on the job driving Big Blue to an investigation site. I couldn't attract more attention to myself if I tried. Maybe I should've taken a cab. After stopping to put more gas in the bottomless tank, I pulled up outside of the homeless shelter.

I walked around to the side, and approach the warehouse door. I was in stealth mode, and nearly jumped out of my skin when my cell phone rang. I quickly hit the button to shut off the ringer. I stuck it back in my pocket, and as soon as it stopped it rang again. It was Stephanie. I turned off the ringer, and was about to approach the door once again, when a text message popped up. It was a 911 from Steph.

I headed back to Big Blue, and before I attracted any more attention, turned the motor over and headed down the street before calling her back.

"Joe! Thank God I got you! Don't go to the warehouse. It's a trap."

"How's that?"

"I just heard Stanton talking to someone on the phone. There's a shooter waiting for you inside the warehouse. They named you Joe. How did they know your name? How did they know you were coming?"

"There's no way they could have known I was coming."

"Well they did."

"I believe you, Cupcake." My breath was caught in my throat. "I love you."

"I love you too, Joe."

"Where are you?"

"Down the block from Mt. Cooper's."

"Where is the bug?"

"In the microwave."

"Please tell me you did not go into that house. I told you no more B&E."

"No one went into the house. They needed a new microwave, and this one just happened to have a few at extra features."

"So you just walk up to them and gave them a microwave?"

"No! Kenny did. He pretended to be from the Salvation Army. You know, they replace things like that when a disaster happens."

After all this time with Stephanie, nothing shouldn't surprise me, but every time I heard one of the stories, she did. "Okay, I'll bite."

"Well, Grandma Mazur took them some frozen burritos she and Carl had bought, thinking that the boys might be hungry. It turned out that some of the burritos might've been a little too spicy, because they set the microwave on fire."

"And I suppose the fire department was standing by?"

"Of course. Safety first."

I stifled a groan.

"And then the Salvation Army showed up with a new mircrowave, just like that."

"Yep. That's it." She took a deep cleansing breath, seeming glad to get through that explanation. "Now what?"

"Uh, Steph...what are you driving?"

"A Hummer. It's Ranger's."

"That's what I thought. I'm pulling in behind you. Big Blue is too conspicuous. I can't believe I'm saying this, but it looks like were going to be taking a Hummer in order to be less conspicuous."

"Where are we going?" She asked, clearing the front seat and sliding over.

I clicked my phone shut as I slid into the driver's seat. "If the guns aren't at Mt. Cooper's and they aren't at the shelter, what do you want to bet Stanton has been stashed at the main office headquarters?"

"It's worth a look."

I put my seatbelt on, and turned the key in the ignition. The Hummer roared to life, vibrating with power. I had done a lot of things in my life, but I had never driven a Porsche Turbo or an original assault model Humvee. Steph had me beat on that score. There were a lot of things I had been jealous of Ranger for, and in all honesty, the cars were pretty high on the list. But that thought was wiped away in an instant when Steph leaned over and kissed me. Eat your heart out, Ranger.

To be continued… 


	37. Chapter 37 Steph's POV Swing Set

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

I had expected Morelli's lead to be in center city. Instead, we seem to be heading for the shore.

"So where is this office? Point Pleasant?" I asked hopefully.

"Close. The address is nearby a marina."

"Why would a good-will organization in Trenton have a main office at a marina?" I wondered. "That's not very convenient."

"A very good question. I'm sure it's convenient for something I'm not going to like. I'm seriously questioning this organization's good-will intentions at this point. Aren't you?"

"So, what marina is it?" I wanted to know why Morelli was being so secretive about our destination. I have him an expectant look.

"Pachetco Inlet Marina," Morelli said with more of than a hint of irony. This was the place where I had taken Morelli into custody on the first case we had worked together. I had locked him in the back of a freezer truck with a few dead bodies.

I felt a devious smile spread across my face. "Oh really?"

"Don't get any bright ideas, Cupcake." He gave me what was supposed to be a warning look, but I just smiled. I had him worried.

In the interests of peace, I decided to turn on the radio and avoid conversation until we arrived. Morelli seemed to be relieved. Still, every once in awhile, he would glance over at me to see if I was still smiling. And every time I caught him looking my way, that smile would creep back across my face. Without a doubt, that had been one of my best days as a bounty hunter. Even Ranger had said it couldn't be done. But I'd done it. I'd brought in the street-wise, tough guy cop, Joe Morelli, and I'd brought him in all by myself. Sometimes I really was Wonder Woman. And that had been one of those times.

We passed the old gas station with the pre-historic gas pumps and advertising for live bait painted on the back of an old piece of paneling. The little shack with a single public pay-phone looked as forlorn as it had the first time I had seen it. I watched it grow smaller and smaller in the side mirror before leaning back in my seat and looking out towards the water.

"Well, what have we here?" Morelli gave a low whistle as we crested the hill overlooking the marina.

"What?"

"Moving van."

I looked up and down the dock, and then I spotted it. It was a short moving van, the kind you would use to move if you lived in an apartment. Now the question was how to get close enough to make a positive ID without giving ourselves a way.

"Hey! Wasn't there a sign back there about a scenic overlook?" I asked.

"So?"

"Well, don't overlooks usually have those binoculars you can use for a quarter?"

"They used to be a quarter, but now it's more like a buck fifty." Morelli pulled over and stopped.

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Other than barging in there, nope," Morelli admitted, making a U-turn and heading back the way we came.

We took the fork the in the road by the gas station and were soon winding upwards. In minutes we were rewarded with a magnificent view of the river and of the van. Morelli, being a bad boy by nature, got the binoculars working without feeding the meter the buck fifty. From the scratch marks on the face of the frame, I would say this was the usual method of operation.

"Is it Stanton?" I asked.

"Bingo. And he's got some help. Looks like he's got two carloads of Bloods working for him. They're standing beside the moving van, and it looks like Stanton is talking to another man about a shipping container down by the docks. They appear to be going over a contract or something. Nothing's happening yet. The lock is still on the truck, and the hired help is looking bored. They've been here a while."

"Probably he's got the guns in the van, and he's going to stash them in the shipping container. And when they do, you can call for backup and go down and bust him right?"

"No. I would have a hard time showing probable cause if I attempted to arrest him now. I can't explain that you had Stanton's house bugged and that's how I knew about the trap he set and the guns being moved. I don't know for sure what's in those crates. It may be guns, but maybe not. We can't afford to take any chances with this guy. We need to bring him down on something big to give us enough leverage to make him tell us where Gaspick is. To do that, we need is enough evidence to secure a warrant and then come back and search the shipping container. That way whatever we find is admissible as evidence."

"What's the difference?" I asked. It all seemed the same to me. "Call the cops now and take the guns or get evidence, get a warrant, take the guns, and then go hunt down Stanton. He's here now. Why can't we just go down there and get him?"

"Because I'd also like to know who's paying for the container first. You know, I'm starting to see how you stumble into so much trouble, Cupcake. You need to have patience."

"We don't have time for patience. And neither does Gaspick."

A pained look crossed his face, and I knew I'd said the wrong thing. "You think I don't know that?" he hissed in a near whisper, his eyes narrowed. "We've only got one shot at this."

"Shot…hey!" That gave me an idea. "Is there any way we can get a picture of Stanton unloading the crates? Would that help?"

"Yes," he said slowly, nodding. "That's exactly what we need. I'm open to ideas."

"Since this scenic overlook is close to the gas station," I reasoned. "Maybe they sell disposable cameras. If we had a disposable camera, could we take a photograph through the binoculars?"

"Not likely, and even if it worked we're still too far away. I can't read the identification numbers on the side of the shipping container. We have to get closer. A lot closer."

The binoculars clicked shut as the timer wound down. Morelli tripped the coin slot again and scanned the length of the marina. "You're not afraid of heights are you?"

My stomach lurched in anticipation of what was coming next. "Why?" I asked, my voice an octave higher than usual.

Morelli pulled back from the binoculars to give me a chance to look. "You see that boat salvage and repair outfit on the opposite side of the fence from the storage container?" I stepped up onto the concrete platform and carefully took hold of the binoculars so I could see where Morelli had the binoculars pointed.

He didn't have to explain the plan to me. There was a crane with an arm long enough to swing over to within 100 feet of storage container. "Oh no, not me!" I shook my head vigorously and took three steps back. "Why can't you do it?"

"Do you know how to operate a crane?" Morelli asked smugly.

"Maybe I do," I said.

"No, you don't," he said, turning and walking back towards the Hummer.

"We need a different plan," I said, running after him. I climbed in and buckled my seat belt.

"First things first. And first, we need a camera." Morelli started the engine and took off at top speed back towards the gas station.

Ten minutes later, I found myself following Morelli towards the repair yard, a disposable camera in one hand, and a used microwave popcorn bag in the other, just in case I lost my lunch.

Morelli knew how to work me. He'd pushed all the right buttons from appealing to my maternal instincts, telling me how Gaspick's mother was going to miss him, to begging me to help him – he even gave me the big brown puppy dog eyes. He'd finally resorted to calling me a chicken and then he actually dared me. I think he had me at chicken, but the dare cinched the deal.

Morelli flashed a badge to the poor sap at the repair yard who was working at scraping barnacles from a dingy. We ran past him, up to the crane, and found the keys were in it. Morelli located a safety harness and lanyard to secure me to the line dangling far below the arm of the crane. I needed to be hidden as much as possible, so Morelli and the barnacle guy wrapped a pair of tow straps around the ends of the dingy and I climbed in. Morelli made sure I was secure, and then disappeared up the ramp that lead to the crane's operating platform.

I had a death grip on the popcorn bag, and I was trying desperately to tell myself this was going to be fun. This was going to be just like a carnival ride at Point Pleasant. I was going to swing over, snap the picture, and be back behind the fence and safely on the ground before Stanton even knew what was happening.

I head the crane start up, and there was a good deal of noise as the rusty gears started squeeking and squealing. I wondered if Morelli had a clue what he was doing. It sounded like someone was trying to drive off with the parking brake on. There was a sudden lurch. I dropped the popcorn bag and grabbed the sides of the boat. I was swinging wildly in the dingy. I didn't dare look over the side. I just held on and stared down at the little seat ahead of me. My knees were knocking, and the swinging was getting worse. I was moving, wind blowing my hair, and my stomach was lurching in the opposite direction of the dingy. I didn't dare let go of the sides, so I just bent forward, put my head between my knees and heaved onto the floor of the boat. I put my feet up on the seat in front of me, trying to keep my shoes clean.

I was trying to breathe. My eyes were closed tight, and I was sitting up as straight as I could, trying to get away from the puke smell. Now I was glad for the breeze. The swaying was getting less violent. I had stopped. I opened one eye, and looked over the side of the boat towards the shipping containers. I scanned the dock for the yellow moving truck. There it was, about 200 feet away. There was another lurch as I was suddenly moving out and down instead of up and away. I bent over and heaved again, and then, gathering myself, forced my hands to let go of the sides so I could look through the camera lens.

I was about 150 feet away and closing on the scene below. There was the big yellow rental moving truck, two cars – both ricer-mobiles and both probably stolen – and a half dozen black teenagers dressed in red gang colors. Stanton was giving orders as the young men unloaded long wooden crates from the moving truck into the shipping container. I took photos of it all, making sure to get the container's numbers as I moved to within 100 feet.

Suddenly, there was a loud thump as the bottom of the boat hit something, tipping it half over. My hand instinctively went to my chest, and needing both hands free, I did what any woman would do…I shoved the camera into my sports bra and held onto the sides of the dingy with both hands. There was another thump as the boat swung into the solid object again. I looked down and saw that the boat was knocking against a large section of fence made from old pilings. This fence was the same color as the weathered wooden fencing ahead of me. Morelli probably couldn't see the pilings. I tried to waive my arms, but I had to hold tight to the boat as it nearly overturned. Morelli was still guiding me towards the outer fence, but there was no way that I was going to clear the pilings.

I may not have attracted Morelli's attention, but I certainly had attracted the attention of a large German Shepherd who was serving time inside the yard. He was growling and barking, following me with hungry, ferocious eyes and baring his teeth. My knees were really knocking now. I screamed at the top of my lungs for Morelli to get me out of there.

Morelli couldn't hear me, but Stanton could. There was shouting from the ground, and within a few seconds, shots were fired. I fell backwards into the bottom of the boat, and immediately regretted it. I was lying in sick, rocking violently, my hands and feet pressed against the edges of the boat as it began tipping over. Wood splintered around me as automatic gunfire erupted from Stanton's position. I held tight as the boat scraped clear of the pilings and I swung free, the boat righting itself again.

Morelli seemed to have heard the gunfire because he stopped the forward movement and drew me back. The boat hit the piling again, this time going the other way. There was another waive of gunfire, and the strap holding end of the boat towards my feet broke loose. The little boat fell away from my feet, then slipped from the strap holding the other end, and suddenly, I was suspended in mid-air, held only by the safety harness, swinging wildly from the lanyard ten feet below the hook and ball of the crane.

The dog had skittered away as the boat fell, but he was charging back towards me now as I dangled from the lanyard. I heard a woman's terrified screaming, and at first thought someone was concerned about me and maybe help was coming…then I realized I was the one screaming. I fought for control. The bullets had stopped. Stanton had run out of bullets!

Then I saw one of the crates being opened and realized they were moving guns _and_ AMMO! Suddenly, I was being lowered to the ground, and the German Shepherd was closing in. I swung my legs wildly, trying to get enough momentum to make it to the top of the pilings. I tried to get a toe hold, but I was still too high, and only managed to kick off, swinging away from the Shepherd. As I approached the fence separating me and the dog from Stanton, I heard the gunfire erupt again. Hard as I could, I kicked against the fence. The dog's teeth closed on my shoe, and I let him have it. It was just a Nike…easily replaced…unlike my foot.

As he ripped the shoe off, he put me into a tight spin. I struggled to get my bearings as I quickly approached the pilings again. I had hoped to swing high enough to clear them or land on top of them, but I crashed into them with my back. The air was knocked out of me, and I was pinned there. Morelli was trying to bring me back as low as possible, which I would have appreciated under normal circumstances. But now, I just wanted to be back in the air.

The Shepherd had not been satisfied with the single Nike. He wanted the other one…and the leg attached to it. I turned, still suspended, and put all my effort into scaling the pilings. I cleared the top and leapt into the air towards Morelli. I had an image in my mind of a graceful swan dive. Instead, I was tripped from the last piling as the Shepherd's fangs dug into the leg of my jeans. We both sailed over the top, my jeans pulling the Shepherd up and over the last few inches, and then we were both falling. There was a sharp yank as the lanyard caught. That dog hung on like a pit-bull. He wasn't letting go, and thanks to all those doughnuts I'd been eating, my waistband was holding tight. Morelli was pulling me up, finally, but with the extra momentum, I was swinging wildly high. Then, like a pendulum, Kujo and I were swinging back towards Stanton.

There they were, standing in a line, all guns trained on me. As I cleared the fence, I did the only think I could think to do. I unbuttoned my jeans and let 'em fly…and the dog, too. No one was more surprised than the pooch. The look on his face was priceless. "You should have kept the shoe, Greedy!" I yelled to him.

Stanton caught the dog square in the chest. He rocked back onto the hood of the gold Eclipse and went down to the ground. The dog was growling, biting, and putting up quite a fight as I swung out of sight. I was higher now, easily clearing the fence and making my way back to Morelli. I thought it was too bad I hadn't gotten just a little closer to Stanton. I wished I could have grabbed his gun, because I was going to kill Morelli.

I could hear cars starting. Large metal doors banged closed, and tires squealed. Stanton and his boys were getting away.

To be continued… 


	38. Chapter 38 Sacking Stanton

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

"Backup is coming!" Morelli shouted. I could hear the sirens in the distance. I guess he had stopped called them as soon as the first shots were fired.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, I slipped out of the harness and ran for the Hummer. "Cupcake!" Morelli yelled, racing after me. "Wait! Where are your pants?"

I jumped in, turned the key, hit the gas, and took off after Stanton. He was tearing away in the Eclipse. The other car, a red 350Z, was off the road and down an embankment. It was easy to see why. There was a German Shepherd standing on the hood, doing his best to tear off the windshield wipers. I wondered why they hadn't shot that crazy dog. My bet was they were so scared of the adrenaline junkie dog that they couldn't get a shot off, and they were in enough trouble for auto theft that they didn't need to add weapons charges to the list.

The Eclipse was disappearing into the distance. The Elicpse had taken off like a shot with a couple hundred horsepower. The H1 had taken off, sort of, with a couple dozen mule power. I finally hit 60 mph after about 20 seconds with my foot to the floor shouting obscenities. I almost got out to push as I approached the hill at the gas station. I loved Ranger, I really did, but this monstrosity was not my idea of a cool car. I'm sure he thought it would make a nice bomb shelter, but I was never going to catch an FTA in this thing, not to mention it was impossible to fit it into a regular parking space at the mall.

I had my foot to the floor and still was not speeding as I passed the first of the inbound black and whites. Surely Morelli had given a description of the cars to the police, and if they'd passed the Eclipse, they would already have him. But the miles passed, and there was no sign of the gold Eclipse or Stanton.

I was almost back into Trenton when I saw him…at a gas station! I almost fainted with relief until I realized I had two problems. One, I couldn't stun him in the gas station. I'd learned my lesson. Two, I didn't have any pants on. Sure, my bikini briefs were cute, but I didn't want to be on the front page in them. This is in addition to the fact that I had fresh puke on my back and in my hair. Crap!

I watched Stanton, looking for any opportunity. Either he'd paid by credit card, which would place him at the scene – unlikely – or he'd have to go inside to pay cash. I took the keys from the ignition, wrapped my jacket around my waist like a skirt, and took off running across the street barefoot the second he turned to walk into the store to pay.

My plan was to take his car, strand him there and call the cops. The driver's door was unlocked! Yes! I slid in behind the wheel, but there were no keys. Damn! I slipped into the back seat and lay down on the floor thinking that when he returned I would stun him. Hey, it had worked on Ruzick…sort of. But then I remembered Morelli's ranting and raving about my being a homicidal maniac and nearly killing innocent bystanders, and I decided against it. I also decided against it because I didn't have my stun gun with me.

Cold air washed over me as Stanton got back into the car. He turned the key and the engine purred like a kitten. He hit the gas and we went skidding out of the drive and down the street. Now what? I tried not to panic. Patience, I thought. I have to have patience.

Stanton's cell phone rang. "Yeah?" he answered gruffly. He pressed the cigarette lighter in and tapped a cigarette out of a pack of Camel's. "No deal. You tell Sanders that if I'm taking care of business on my end, I deserve a fair cut…on everything he's got going on. If he's not man enough to make the deal with Boone, I'll make the deal, and he'll get nothing from me." He slapped the phone shut. The phone immediately rang again. "What is it now, Dish?" Stanton growled. "Was that in any way unclear?" There was a pause. "Yes, I know they're living with the cop. It's been taken care of." He hung up again.

What did that mean? Did that mean Stanton thought Morelli was dead at the warehouse? Or did he know Morelli didn't show up and he had something else planned?

I wasn't waiting to find out. I cautiously felt around for the driver's side seat release. When I found it I took a deep breath and waited for him to stop the car. We were back in Trenton, and he was stopping for lights occasionally. I recognized a few buildings. We were near North Clinton! We were two blocks from the cop shop! I waited until he was stopped at Lincoln and North Clinton. I reached under the seat and pulled the seat release, shoving all of my weight into the seat and pushing Stanton into the steering wheel. The horn was blaring. His arms were flailing and he couldn't reach his gun. I reached past him and pressed the down button on the driver's window. I screamed for help as loud as I could. He was trying to shove me back, so I locked my legs against the back seat and held him tight as I could. Two uniforms were running down the street towards us from the station.

I was feeling confident. I was in control. Sure, they were going to catch me covered in my own puke and running around in my underwear, but I was the one who brought in the bad guy. I was psyched. I was only seconds away from making the capture.

Then, I was on fire. Stanton had managed to press the cigarette lighter against my shoulder. I rocketed away from the pain, falling into the back seat. He pushed back and hit the gas, almost running over one of the officers who barely managed to jump out of the way. I was screaming in pain and fury. Stanton had pressed the lighter back in to heat it up again for round two, and this gave me pause.

We were racing up North Clinton past the cop shop when a familiar grill caught my eye. For a split second I had this image in my mind of a mean-spirited kid with big buck teeth grinning maliciously from behind the face mask of a football helmet. Then I recognized the grill. It was the Hummer. And it was coming right at us, fast.

I dove down in a ball behind the passenger seat as Morelli ran head on into Stanton. Stanton hadn't been wearing his seat belt so he bounced his head hard off the windshield, shattering it. Before he had a chance to spit out his broken teeth, Morelli had wrenched open the door and ripped him out of the seat. "Steph!" he yelled.

"I'm okay!" I called back.

The passenger seat was yanked forward and Ranger pulled me out. He gave me a funny look as he made note of the burn still smoking on my arm and my lack of apparel.

"Are you sure you're not hurt, Babe?" he asked, wrapping my jacket more securely around my waist.

I heard a bang and crunch as Morelli was liberally using excessive force to subdue Stanton. Ranger kept my eyes on him, not allowing me to turn around.

"Where are your shoes?" Ranger asked, picking me up like a small child and carrying me back to his truck.

"A dog ate them."

"Babe," he laughed. "You never disappoint."

"At least I didn't total out the Hummer. This time, you can blame Morelli."

"Can't," he said, smiling. "It's a tank. There's not a scratch on it."

I turned and looked. He was right. Just my luck. Everytime I have a car I love, it blows up. Everytime I'm saddled with a car big enough to have it's own gravity, it lasts forever.

"I don't suppose it comes in another color?" I asked hopefully.

"What color did you have in mind?" he asked with a playful almost-smile.

"Pink?" I asked, knowing the look that would get me.

"Babe, you're never going to talk me into putting my name on a pink car. How about blue?"

"I already have a Big Blue."

"Blue's your lucky color." He leaned over and kissed me.

I pulled back from the kiss when I heard Morelli bodyslam Stanton onto the hood of the Eclipse. Immediately, my eyes shot across the street to Morelli. I was afraid he was watching us and was taking out his frustrations on Stanton. But he wasn't looking. He was dragging a cuffed and disheveled Stanton over to the station. It didn't appear he had called for an ambulance. I turned back to Ranger. "Well?"

I got his usual answer. A know-it-all smile.

"You think you can read my mind? Well, you can't."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Then I guess you don't need a Coke and fries."

"You think that's the cure for everything."

"Not for everything." Carlos Manoso, master of the double entendre.

"So?"

"So, what?" Ranger was enjoying toying with me.

"Are we going to McDonald's or what?"

"Sure," he said, smiling again. He pulled a black windbreaker from behind the seat. It had "Security" printed on the back in big yellow letters. "Here, put this on," he said, handing me the jacket. I slipped into it and tried to stop shivering. "You did good, Babe," he said. "I'm proud of you."

"Thanks," I said. "I still rolled in puke."

"I noticed."

"Before or after you put me in the truck?"

"Does it matter?"

"No." He turned into the McDonald's drive through lane. "Besides, it's my turn to clean you up."

"What?"

"Morelli cleaned you up last time."

"Hey!" I was about to go into a rant, but Ranger's face cracked in a smile, and I knew he was having me on. "You're such a jerk."

Ranger's cell phone rang. "It's Morelli," he said, handing the phone to me.

"Morelli! Stanton just took a call from Dish. Stanton wants Sanders to cut him in on all of his deals with Boone or he's threatening to take over and cut Sanders out. And he knows Lucas and Joe are at your house and he's planning something. He said they've been taken care of."

"You heard this?"

"Yeah. We've got to keep Stanton locked up and we can't let him call anyone, especially Dish, or he's going to tip off Sanders and Boone!"

"I don't think that will be a problem since you're willing to press kidnapping charges, right?"

"Uh, right. But, uh, does it matter exactly how I came to be in the car?"

"Were there witnesses?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Morelli groaned. "One thing at a time, Cupcake. One thing at a time."

I closed the phone. "I need to go back to the station to press charges," I told Ranger.

He handed me a large Coke and an extra large French fries. While I took a long pull on the straw, Ranger studied me, then let his gaze move over my bare legs. "You're poaching," I told him.

"You back with Morelli?" he asked.

"I don't know. It feels like we're back," I said.

"It always feels like that," he said ruefully, pulling out of the drive.

I nibbled on a French fry. "Yeah, but I think maybe something is different this time." I ate a few more French fries, unable to put my finger on the exact nature of the change. "Ranger, do you think I should marry Morelli?"

He wasn't expecting that, and I didn't get the answer I was expecting. "Not right now."

"'Not right now', as in 'no, never_'_, or 'not right now' as in 'yes, but it's not time yet'?"

"Babe," was all the answer I was going to get. This time, Ranger didn't look at me when he smiled.

"You're not helping," I complained as we pulled into the Trenton PD parking lot.

"Yes, I am."

He cut the motor and escorted me into the building through the back.

_To be continued..._


	39. Chapter 39 Gang Rules and Ranger

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

I'd prepared all the charges against Stanton I could think of, except kidnapping, which after getting Steph's side of the story left still left me with attempted murder as my trump card. I had a pretty strong case since I had a couple of witnesses at the marina. The stolen vehicle alone was enough to hold Stanton till the arraignment which I managed to delay until Monday. Stanton had threatened to file charges against Stephanie for assault and against me for excessive force, but after a quick chat during which his temple came into repeated contact with the hood of the Eclipse he had been driving, he came to realize the negative impact that would have on my willingness to negotiate a plea bargain for him when I got my search warrant and brought the additional charges of arms dealing, distribution, and contributing to the delinquency of a good number of minors, just to name a few. I was sure once I started digging, I could come up with a few more zingers, like pre-meditated murder for instance.

What I needed most was assurance that I could make Stanton roll over on Boone and Sanders once I brought them in. Which brought me back to Steph. Stephanie and this Madame Bouvier were going after Boone tonight. It was already dark. Time was short and getting shorter.

"Where's Steph?" I asked Costanza and Ranger when I returned to my office.

"She called Sally Sweet to come pick her up. He's going to help her get dressed up for her performance," Ranger said with an air of calm that belied his concern. This was not just another skip she was going after, and we all knew it.

"You hear about your boy, Varela, yet?" Costanza asked.

"What now?" I asked, sliding into my chair and grabbing my cell phone, preparing to make a series of phone calls to finish setting up my part of our plan.

"It's a good thing you pulled Pavia out at the hearing and put him in protective custody. Varella wasn't back ten minutes before he killed another gang banger right there in the holding pen. Bounced his head off the floor and cracked his skull like a watermelon. Two of his home's jumped another guy before we could get to them. They sent him to the infirmary. I don't know how bad it is yet, but now we're looking at murder and assault charges against Varela and his crew. They're not going anywhere."

"I could understand Varela doing something like that after he's been sentenced and sent to face hard time, but even then, it isn't all that tough at NJSP. I mean, the inmates play music with Wynton Marsalis down there. And here he's pulling this shit in the city lock up? He's _got_ to be nuts!" I said.

"Yes and no," Ranger said. "He's MS-13."

"Yeah, we know he's a gang banger," Costanza said with a shrug. "So?"

"_Mara Salvatrucha Trece_ is not like other gangs," Ranger said, letting the R's roll off his tongue.

"What makes you say that?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. Mr. Know-It-All was about to enlighten us.

"_Mara Salvatrucha_ literally means "gang of guerrilla fighters". The number thirteen stands for the thirteenth letter of the alphabet and at times it's used to pay homage to the Mexican Mafia because of their power and influence in the American prison system, but these guys have only one goal and that is to be the _Numero Uno_ Hispanic gang anywhere, and they achieve this by fear…by killing. This gang started when immigrants from El Salvador found themselves in a street war against the Mexicans in LA. They fled one war, and ended up in another. And they're still fighting by South American war rules."

"What rules are those?" Costanza asked.

"There are no rules." I said.

Ranger cut his eyes from Costanza to me. "The rules are, if you're not MS-13, you're the enemy, and if you're the enemy, they'll kill you.

"No shit, Zorro?" I said, trying to appear unimpressed even though I was afraid he was right. Ranger walked streets I didn't know the names of. I supressed a shudder at the memory of my recent sight-seeing trip with Ranger and Hector. "Why don't you tell us something we didn't get at our last training and awareness session."

"Okay." Ranger raised an eyebrow and his chin, looking down his nose at me. "The difference between Trenton's gangs and a true MS-13 gang is that the refugees from El Salvador were military trained men who had been dragged through the most gruesome and violent wars since they were children. They were used to seeing decapitated bodies lying in the streets outside their houses and fighting with machetes was commonplace. So, when they were faced with violence in LA, they reacted with more violence. They conquered through fear. They were so vicious that in the early nineties the Fed's rounded up and deported all the MS-13 they could capture back to El Salvador. Many returned and with them connections. Their reach now firmly extends from El Salvador to the inside American prisons and back, creating a cash and supply pipeline with coast-to-coast distribution networks in the US. They have upwards of two hundred thousand members. Today the gang is more powerful than the country they came from."

"Being a little melodramatic, aren't we?" I asked with a little snort.

"If you're thinking that these guys are misunderstood and they really just want to fit in, you couldn't be more wrong.

"Well that's good, because they'd be hard-pressed to get a job all painted up with those clown faces," Costanza laughed.

"You're such a white boy," Ranger said, shaking his head. "All members are required to _represent_. That means tattoos. Tattoos from the neck up, especially the facial tattoos, have to be earned, and that means stabbing, killing, and violence. No remorse. No hesitating. Whatever the gang leader - the shot caller - says, they do. No questions. The only way out is death. That's the code. Anyone that deserts a crew will be hunted down and killed no matter how far they run. Probably with a machete."

"That may be, but this is gang is a bunch of posers," Costanza said with a dismissive shrug.

Ranger remained serious. There was no hint of a smile on _his_ face. "They just killed a guy in your lockup with their bare hands. How much more real do you need them to be?"

"I don't expect Varela's chances are going to be any better on the inside than on the outside," I said.

"No," Ranger agreed. "I understand you have a soft spot for the artist, Pavia."

"Yeah, I think he could really be something, if he was given a chance."

"And you want to give him this chance?" Ranger asked, already knowing the answer. His expression darkened. "Whether he's MS or they just think he is, his life is over. He's ratted out his clique. He's already been green-lighted. And his art work is signature. Anywhere he goes they'll find him."

"And what do you suggest I do about it? Just watch him die?"

"Not much you can do about it except get the tattoos removed, try to keep him alive through the trial, then provide him with a new identity and send him to Alaska with ten broken fingers."

"Alaska?"

"Actually Siberia might be better." Ranger was still serious.

"I don't think he'll go for that," I said, trying to make light of Ranger's grim prediction.

"If you're thinking of putting him in your little foster home with Mooch as a babysitter, you can forget it. Even your house isn't safe enough for that boy. He's got to disappear."

"Sounds to me like you rather admire this bunch," Costanza said, narrowing his eyes at Ranger.

Ranger gave a near imperceptible nod. "They have a code. They have defined leadership. Regular members to pay taxes and they hold court when a rule is broken. This isn't a gang for freewheeling idiots. They have their own sign language. They are required to uphold responsibilities to their clique. They recruit those without families or with absentee parents who are athletic, smart, and those willing to do the most for their brothers. They run a very lucrative organization. I have to give them credit where credit is due."

"Yeah, well, it's just a shame they can't do something more constructive than hack people's heads off and carve them up like chickens," Costanza responded, his voice rising.

"Hold it," I said. "Chickens? That's what Pavia said about Little J. He died like a chicken. What's with these chickens?"

"Most kids start by killing animals, and then move up to people. It's a natural progression. You don't start out with sex, you start out with a kiss."

Costanza and I both made a face. "That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard!" Costanza stammered.

"Ranger, man…" I agreed, shaking my head along with Costanza. Ranger just gave a twitch of an eye that was probably supposed to be an eye-roll. I decided to change the subject before he said anything more shocking. "Varela was already being held without bond. Two of his gang were released to their parents' custody the night they were brought in. Regardless of Varela's fate, I still need to find the hitter from El Salvador before he takes them all out."

"I'm warning you," Ranger said, "it doesn't matter how young these kids are, they will do what ever Varela tells them. That's part of the code. You do what ever the leader says, even if he's giving orders from the inside because someday _you_ will be on the inside asking those on the outside to do something for you. There are only three places members end up: Hospital, prison, or the cemetery. There are no other options, and they never promise any other path. These little guys are ready to die for him."

"How refreshing," Costanza groaned, waiving a dismissive hand at Ranger and turning to leave.

"Varela will send them straight after Pavia," I thought out loud.

"Traditionally, they'll stab him thirteen times," Ranger agreed.

"Hold it." Costanza said, coming back down the hall. "We've got a body in the morgue that matches that description."

"What?" I was all ears.

"Man, early twenties, found hanging in a warehouse, chain wrapped around his neck, feet off the floor. The body has not been identified yet, but the tattoos indicate the victim was a member of 18th Street."

"_Chavala_," Ranger said.

"His name is _Chavala_?" Costanza asked, surprised.

Ranger shook his head. "A _chavala_ is a rival gang member."

I looked him in the eye and knew we were thinking the same thing. "This hitter from El Salvador isn't just running around killing everybody he comes across is he? I thought he was just after Varela and his crew."

Ranger shrugged. "Maybe he figured this guy knew where to find Varela. Besides, he would consider hanging a _chavala_ out to dry to be a way of announcing his presence."

Costanza laughed. "Is this guy stupid? Why would some hitter from El Salvador want _us_ to know he's here?"

"He's not afraid of cops," Ranger told Costanza. "In fact, if you're holding Varela and he wants to get hold of Varela, he may want you to pick him up. Either way it makes his job easier if the local gangs are willing just hand those boys over."

"If he wants to stay here at Trenton's finest inn, we'll be glad to pick him up," I said matter-of-factly. "But he's not sticking anyone else on my watch."

"We'll see," Ranger smirked, clearly unimpressed with my bravado. "One more thing. Keep Stephanie out of it. Gangs like the Mexican Mafia may view women and children as innocent, but not these guys. This hitter won't be interested in her witty conversation. He will kill her."

"Don't worry," I told him. "She's keeping busy."

"Don't trust her, Morelli. Where there's trouble, she'll find it."

_Don't I know it._ "You coming along for the ride?" I asked. I knew he would be in the shadows anyway. I would prefer knowing where he was and what he was doing.

Ranger and I met up at Steph's apartment. Steph stepped out of the bedroom and we both did a double-take. She was unrecognizable in a Marilyn wig, white powdered skin, thick red lips, and a certain little black dress I'd seen only twice before.

There was silence in the room. "What? You don't like it?" she asked, looking down at her four-inch heels. "It's the shoes, isn't it?" she asked Ranger.

"Babe." It could have meant anything, but I didn't like the way he said it. I could feel the blood racing to my face, making a vein in my forehead throb. Steph looked from Ranger to me, took note of my rising jealousy, and seemed to decide the shoes were fine.

"Cupcake, you don't have to do this," I told her.

"Yes, I do," she said, pulling her wrap around her, apparently self-conscious all of a sudden. "I'm just afraid I'll be recognized. After all, I don't think Boone or his men will have forgotten that I killed his partner Jamal Alou recently. They've hardly had time to get over it."

"I doubt they're so sentimental," I told her with a reassuring laugh. She smiled.

"Boone is a killer, and his mistress is no pussy cat," Ranger warned her, pulling her back from me. "Don't trust her."

"I wish we could send you in wired," I told her, "but we can't risk it. Security is very high around Boone. You'll have to go in unarmed, and without even a GPS tracker."

At this news, she turned to Ranger. "I didn't know that."

"It's okay, Babe. We won't lose you." He pulled out a pocket knife and knelt down in front of her, removing one of her shoes. She put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself and watched as he pried the heel loose and removed a tracking device. I expected yelling, but there was no protest. She was used to the idea that Ranger had her on GPS 24/7, and if I wasn't mistaken, she seemed to find it comforting.

I was not comforted. Where were these shoes the other day when I was wanding her apartment? I didn't pick up that GPS tracker. I pushed the thought to the side and tried to focus on preparing Steph for her mission.

When we were joined by Bernie and Dillon, we sat down at the table and went over the plans one more time. Madame Bouvier had been promised a clean record and reward money from the chief himself if she lead us to Gaspick's whereabouts. Stephanie and Madame Bouvier were going to be picked up from the lobby of the Marriot in a limo that would take them to Boone. Stephanie would request pizza delivery from Pino's. Richie would standing by to relay the address to me. Bernie and Dillon would be dispatched, dressed as a bum and a jogger to be our eyes and ears. Kenny and Buckey were standing by with a fire truck and ambulance. We thought we knew the houes where Boone was staying in Trenton. The plan was to set up at a vacant house nearby so that our cop cars would be less conspicuous in the area. We had smoke bombs, but I was willing to set the place on fire if I had to. We would be as close to Steph as we could get, but we had to let the Pino's delivery man do his job first. We had to be sure not to implicate Pino's. It was a Burg staple, and it word got around that Pino's was turning in felons, they'd go out of business overnight.

With our plans in motion, Ranger took off to become one with the night. I was driving Stephanie to the Marriot to meet Madame Bouvier. I took her hand as we exited her building and walked into the parking lot with Steph's staccato steps echoing off the brick building in the chill night air. Suddenly, she stopped, yanking hard on my arm.

"Second thoughts?" I asked.

"The red light on the dash," she said. "It's a bomb sensor."

"What kind of bomb sensor?" I asked, looking at the H1 and thinking that it looked damn near indestructible.

"There's some kind of motion sensor on the undercarriage."

"So, it could be set off by a cat, a blowing leaf, or a car bomb," I reasoned.

"Could be," she said, hoping for one of the first items on my list.

"I need a mirror and a flashlight," I told her. Steph ran clickety-clack back into the apartment building and returned a few minutes later with a light-up makeup mirror taped to an old hockey stick. Dillon was right behind her.

I took the hockey stick and crouched down on the ground beside the Hummer. Dillon and I looked up and down the undercarriage, but didn't see anything suspicious.

"You know," Dillon said, "I've been cleaning up after Stephanie for a long time. Dead guys in her apartment, shot up snakes in the hallway, blood on the carpet, spray paint on the walls, unspeakable slime on her front door…and the last time her car was torched there was so much accelerant used I had to have part of the parking lot re-paved. I hate to admit it, but that Ranger does his best to protect her. If you're not going to marry that girl, I say you need to stand back and let him take care of her. I was so relieved when he had that new fire-door put in for her. Management would never have sprung for it after her apartment was firebombed like that."

I was staring at Dillon in the light of the make-up mirror underneath a vehicle while looking for a car bomb, and he was saying that I wasn't taking care of her as well as Ranger could? "I can take care of her!" I hissed at him. "Everyone in the free world has picked the lock on that door. Secure my ass," I snorted. "And she's still with me. Make no mistake." I gave him my fiercest Italian stare which was usually accompanied by an Italian salute, but there wasn't room under the vehicle.

"Ah," Dillon said, getting the picture. He started to crawl backwards, trying to get away from me as fast as he could, but I reached out and grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him back under the Hummer.

"What new fire door?"

"You know…after her apartment was firebombed."

"She had already had a fire door."

"It was torn from the hinges when the firemen came in. We couldn't use it, and it wasn't half as good as this one."

"Does Stephanie know about this?" I asked.

"No. It was a gift. He said if she knew about it..." He shrugged.

"Who installed it?" I asked, holding my breath but knowing the answer.

"Ranger sent someone…"

I groaned and laid my head on the pavement. "All this time…"

"Sorry?" Dillon said.

"Nothing." I crawled out from under the Hummer and gave Steph the thumbs up and thrust the hockey stick back at Dillon who wisely disappeared into the building.

"Must have been a cat, huh?" she asked, sounding thoroughly relieved and looking stunning as the wind blew the ends her little blonde wig around her chin.

"More likely, it was _the_ _wind_," I said with a rueful smirk, thinking how I finally had the answer that would shut down Ranger's midnight rendezvous' for good.

_To be continued…_


	40. Chapter 40 Steph's POV Meeting Boone

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Steph's POV 

Morelli and I pulled up to the Marriott Hotel. He seemed to be trying hard not to look at me.

"You ready?" He asked.

"Sure. I can do this," I told him, not believing a word of it.

He took my face in his hands and gave me a good-bye kiss, careful not to smear my Marilyn lipstick. I slipped out of the Humvee, and walked quickly towards the hotel door. With each step, I felt the chill of separation, knowing that each step took me farther away from the safety I had come to depend on. Tonight, I would really be on my own.

Madame Bouvier was waiting for me, draped in expensive silk, with diamonds in her hair. I suddenly felt incredibly underdressed. I pulled my wrap tight around me. I sat down next to her without a word as we waited. I tried to look at the paintings in the lobby, wishing I were inside one of them...anywhere but here.

At eleven o'clock exactly, a long black limo pulled into the drive. An attendant came inside. He was dressed in an expensive black suit, and the bulge under his suit jacket had me convinced that he was carrying either a big gun or a small cannon. We rose and followed him out, where he graciously opened the door and helped us in. These were not the goons I had expected.

Madame Bouvier helped herself to Champaign from the bar. I just sat taking in all the amenities. Boone had real money, and I started to feel queasy to my stomach thinking that maybe Ranger was right. Madame Bouvier could turn on me. Boone certainly had enough money to keep her quiet. She didn't need to be making deals with me. It also appeared that he was seeking vengeance for the loss of her son. That would also serve to buy a lot of loyalty. Chances were just as good that she was turning me over to him tonight. Actually, the chances were extremely good.

I kept my jaw clenched tight, trying to keep my teeth from chattering and also trying to keep from saying anything stupid. Morelli and I had expected that I would be taken to a house Boone kept in Trenton, but we were driving out of the city now. As I watched the signs passing by my window, my heart began to pound. Another few minutes and I would be outside of Morelli's jurisdiction, and outside of his ability to help me anytime soon. Surely, Madame Bouvier had to know this, but she didn't seem the least bit concerned.

I realized that we were heading for Princeton. My heart sank, my mouth was dry, my knees were knocking, and my hands were shaking. Madame Bouvier looked over at me, but I couldn't read her expression. She helped herself to another drink and sank back into the warm leather seat.

"Don't be nervous, honey," she said. "You're just his flavor."

I did a full body shiver. Great. That made me feel a lot better.

Most of my life had time to flash before my eyes before we arrived at a palatial mansion that stretched over several acres, complete with expanses of garden dotted with flowing fountains. An ornate iron gate surrounded the estate. As we approached, three uniformed guards emerged from the guardhouse. They were armed with automatic weapons. One came through a door in the gate and approached the vehicle, making a cursory inspection before we were allowed to pass. We were expected, otherwise, I thought we might be strip-searched. Ranger was right; security was tight as a drum.

The limo took us up the long drive and a circled around to the front door where more attendants met us. Madame Bouvier seemed to be well recognized. There was no hint of hesitation as she exited the vehicle and proceeded up the steps into the house. I put on my best effort to look unimpressed, thinking that I would be expected to have been in these types of situations before.

We were shown through to a luxurious lounge where a fire was blazing in a circular fireplace in the center of the room. One wall was mostly fish tank, filled with the most incredible tropical fish I had never seen. I felt like I was in a James Bond movie. I looked into the fish tank I noticed the double relection the fish were casting as they brushed the back glass and realized that it was a one-way mirror, allowing Boone to observe those waiting in the room. I walked casually back towards the long plush couch where Madame Bouvier was sitting. Another attendant walked in, bringing us two drinks on a tray. Madame Bouvier looked like she had expected nothing less, so I took my drink with the same ungrateful air and pretended to sip. I had no intention of drinking anything in this house, however, in case Boone tried to drug or poison me. First chance I got, I was going to kill one of the plants with it.

My mind seemed to be in a free-fall. Nothing had gone as planned. I couldn't even remember what kind of pizza I was supposed to order, and it didn't matter now anyway. Pino's didn't deliver to Princeton. I had no idea if anyone knew where I was. I needed to believe that I was on my own just in case I was. I was trying to decide whether I should pretend to be sick, which would be easy since I felt like throwing up anyway. Then I could ask to be taken back. I thought it would work, but then I wouldn't be able to find Gaspick and we'd have nothing on Boone we could use. Morelli would still be in danger. I was always in danger, so why not stay and get this thing handled? I was still deciding when Lionel Boone strode into the room.

"I see you brought me a present," he said jovially to Madame Bouvier.

"Of course," she said with a smile. I got the distinct feeling that their intimate relationship had ended a long time ago.

Lionel Boone appeared to be in his fifties, but there was no sign of gray in his hair. He was a black man with mahogany skin and piercing black eyes lined with thick dark lashes. He was dressed in a white linen shirt, black dress pants and Italian leather loafers. A beautiful gold watch gleamed on his wrist and a diamond ring sparkled on his right ring finger. This was not the Lionel Boone I had expected. This man did not appear to have come from the streets. He was well educated, and he had a look to him that only came from old money. Probably this house had been in his family for generations.

Boone approached me. "And what is your name?"

I needed a name. _Don't hesitate,_ I thought. "Madam," I said slowly, my mind frantically grabbing the first thing it could find besides _Butterfly_. "Zaretsky" I said in a slow, sexy drawl. I extended my hand.

"Ah…Madame Zaretsky, at last." He kissed my hand, making my skin crawl. "You travel in protected circles."

"How so?" I wished I had sipped my drink. My mouth was so dry it was like the Sahara.

"Cops and bondsmen," he said with a searching look.

I almost choked, but I played it off. "Who? Vinnie?" I laughed. "He keeps me out of jail." He looked doubtful, so I gave a little shrug, then batted my eyelashes at him just a little. "Influential men don't love ducks." I was hoping influential men didn't love women who have been with men who loved ducks.

"And the cops?" he asked, still not satisfied with my answer.

I didn't know what cops he was talking about, but I figured he knew more about Madame Zaretsky's clientele than I did, so I played along. "Just business."

"Maybe we can do business," he said, taking my drink from me. Gulp!

"Why do you think I'm here?" I asked in a low, husky voice.

"You tell me." He led us over to a deep, suede love seat facing the fire where he sat very close to me, toying with my fingers. Guess the duck thing wasn't going to deter him.

"Not much of a future in cops," I said, fighting the catch in my throat as I thought about Morelli and how much more was riding on my success tonight.

"Not much," he said with a self-satisfied smile.

_Bastard_, I thought.

"You like torture?" he asked.

Knowing Madame Zaretsky's penchant for S&M, I gave a little nod but held up my finger in warning. "I like to give, not receive." I said, thinking how I almost passed out every time handcuffs were mentioned. I was not a handcuff kind of girl. But I would sure like to take a whip to some of my FTA's. "That's why I do what I do." I tried to raise an eyebrow and look smart as I said this, but I wasn't sure it worked.

"That's fine," Boone cooed into my ear, leaning closer. "I have something interesting to show you later." This something seemed to be a source of both pride and a warning. I felt my blood run cold. Could it be whatever was left of Gaspick? Could it be my doom? Could it be his Johnson? All equally scary propositions.

Silently, I was screaming, "_MORELLI, get me out of here!"_

_To be continued…_


	41. Chapter 41 Old Cronies to the Rescue

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

Stephanie had only been gone an hour, but I already sensed something had gone wrong. There was nothing I could do but wait. I paced back and forth at the fire station where I was holed up with Kenny and Buckey. I relaxed the second my phone rang.

"Talk to me," I said, expecting Richie's voice. Instead, I got Ranger.

"She's in Somerset County north of Princeton. We lost them when they took a private road. We couldn't follow."

Damn! I tasted bile in the back of my throat. We'd been had.

"What do you want to do?" Ranger asked.

"We have to get her out of there."

"There are sixteen large estates down that road and she could be in any of them. None are listed under Boone or Bouvier." I had no idea how Ranger had come by this information so quickly, and I didn't ask. I was sure he was right. "We can't search them all."

Just then my phone beeped. I was getting another call. "I'll call you back," I told Ranger, and picked up the other line. "Talk," I said, praying somehow she'd managed to call Richie.

"Hey, handsome!" It was Stephanie's Grandma Mazur. "We thought you could use some help."

"We?" I asked, not sure whether to hang up or if she could actually help.

"I know all about Stephanie's secret mission to hunt down Lionel Boone," she said. I sucked in my breath and tried not to groan. There really were no secrets in the Burg.

"How?" I asked, supposing Stephanie might have let it slip.

"Sally told his Aunt Lorraine, who told Stephanie's entire apartment building. Sol Kleinschmidt is on her team, you know. Well, he gathered all his cronies, including me and Carl. We piled into Sol's new Lincoln Town Car. You know, it really can seat eight? Anyway, we followed Stephanie's limo past Princeton and down a private drive. We figured she was in trouble because we saw Ranger's last man fall back. He tried to go off-road to follow, but he got stuck in the mud."

"Where are you now?" I asked, breathless with anticipation.

"We've been pulled over by some very nice men in suits who are carrying automatic weapons. Sol and Carl are pretending to be lost, fighting over a map."

"Can you tell me how to find you?" I asked, about to rip my hair out.

"Oh, sure…this baby's got that new On-Star. They said we were on Seven Swans Road."

"Call them back and ask them for the GPS coordinates," I told her. When I had the location, I called Ranger.

Ranger had contacted Joe Juniak, a former Trenton police officer who had gone from Police Chief to Mayor to Governor, and finally Congressman for the State of New Jersey. Juniak had just been re-elected, and the current Governor couldn't afford to be anything but gracious or face three very unpleasant years in office. Ranger once said that no one wanted to be on the wrong side of Juniak. I was sure about that, but I still didn't know what the deal was with Ranger constantly pulling in favors from Juniak. I sometimes wondered if Ranger had something to do with Juniak's skyrocketing career. That might explain the never-ending supply of new cars, but I didn't care right now. What I cared about was getting back up from the New Jersey State Police and the permission to proceed that Ranger had obtained.

We raced down Seven Swans Road with lights off. By the time we reached the Lincoln parked in front of the gates to a multi-million dollar estate, Mr. Kleinschmidt and Coglin had taken out the gate guards and were dressed in their uniforms, along with Mr. Landowsky, who was eighty-two and true-to-form had his pants pulled up to his armpits. They were loitering around the idling Lincoln, talking to Grandma Mazur, Lorraine, Mrs. Karwatt (Stephanie's next door neighbor), and Mrs. Bessler who were doing their best to stay warm.

Mr. Landowsky was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them.

"If you're too cold, Myron, get in the car," Mrs. Bessler was telling him.

"Yeah, I could be a guard," Grandma Mazur was saying. "How come I didn't get asked to be a guard?"

"If I get in the car, I'll be too hot, and then when I get out again, I'll be too cold. Hot, cold, hot cold…gives me the runs," Mr. Landowsky complained.

I reluctantly walked up to them as Ranger fell into step behind me. We looked around for the guards, but didn't see them.

"In the trunk," Mr. Kleinschmidt told us, proudly displaying his own M-16, which he had slung around his shoulders. "We couldn't wait around here all night waiting for the cavalry, now, could we?"

Ranger looked past the gate, up the long drive to the house.

"Any ideas?" I asked.

"A few, but not anything I like."

"We have an idea," Grandma Mazur chimed in. She jumped out of the back seat of the car, dragging behind her a very large, very dead Rottweiler. Mrs. Bessler scampered out next, pulling out a Pit Bull on a leash.

Ranger and I exchanged grimaces and turned to Coglin for an explanation since this was no doubt his handiwork.

"What? There wasn't room for them in the trunk after we stashed the guards," he said. "Here," he reached out and set the Rottweiler on it's feet on the ground in front of him, took what looked like a retractable leash in his hands, and pressed a button. The dog started walking in a mechanical, rather halting fashion. "It can go faster if you want," he said, pressing the button again. It looked a little more natural on the faster setting, but not much. I was surprised it stayed upright. He pressed another button and there was a growl, and when he pressed a third button a long series of excited barks that sounded like the dog had treed a raccoon in the South.

"Carl was inspired after we saw Pet Cemetary the other day," Grandma Mazur explained.

"I'm impressed," Ranger said, taking the leash for the Pit Bull and giving it a try. "We'll need the uniforms," he said.

"Uh oh," cried Mr. Landowsky, running across the road and heading for some bushes.

"I can't believe I used to find him attractive," Grandma Mazur said, shaking her head. Ranger and I exchanged grimaces again.

"We still have two outfits," Mr. Kleinschmidt announced proudly, stripping off his jacket and stepping out of the pants. He was standing in his boxer shorts in the middle of the road. Grandma Mazur gave a loud whistle of approval.

"Show off," Coglin said, stripping out of his own uniform, beneath which he had the good sense to be fully dressed.

Ranger and I pulled the uniforms on over our clothes, which was a very tight fit since we were both wearing vests. We entered the grounds, walking the dogs up to the door. I could only hope an estate like this actually had guard dogs on the premises, or we'd look really stupid.

A guard called down to us from a second floor balcony as soon as we were within 100 feet of the house.

"You! What are you doing?" We could hardly see him on the shadowed side of the house.

"Got stuck walking these stupid dogs," I answered back. "They didn't get their exercise today and they started fighting, so we're supposed to walk them till they're tired," I complained. It sounded lame, but he seemed to buy it and let us pass without further incident.

We rounded the side of the house and listened. We heard a man and a woman's excited voices. It was Stephanie's unmistakable nervous laugh that made my heart stop. We backed up until we could see the faint light coming from an upstairs window. Ranger and I ditched the dogs and started climbing. We were both hanging from the ledge of a third floor balcony, peeking into the room through the French doors. Stephanie was playing keep away with Boone while Madame Bouvier appeared to be passed out.

I was about to suggest that we needed a plan when Boone caught her. She gave a shriek, and before I knew what I was doing, I was over the railing and barreling through the glass. I pulled my revolver and pistol whipped Boone into next week while grabbing Stephanie to me.

"Joe!" she cried, tripping as she fell into my arms, holding onto me for dear life. "I never thought I'd see you again!"

"Oh, come on!" I said, trying to play it off that I hadn't been worried. "You didn't think for a minute I was going to let anything happen to you, did you?"

"Yes!" she shrieked, hitting me with a shaking fist and burying her face in my chest.

Ranger had zip-tied and duct taped Boone and Madame Bouvier and locked them in a closet. Apparently screams and scuffing had been expected, because no one came to check it out. I switched my radio on and called down to the State Police SWAT team waiting below that we were in and had Stephanie, giving them our location inside the house. We were going to try to take out the control room, and then give the signal for them to enter the grounds so we could search for Gaspick.

We exited the room carefully and quietly, Ranger in the lead, then Steph, and I brought up the rear. As we descended a back staircase and approached the control room, Ranger whipped out a tactical model Glock 34 competition grade pistol with an AAC 9 Suppressor. I knew this was in the ballpark of a $2,500 gun, before modifications, though I was sure Ranger hadn't paid $2,500 for it. Still, I swear, I hated this guy!

"We're not supposed to kill anyone if we can help it," I reminded him.

"Trust me," Ranger said, still advancing. Steph hugged Ranger's back as he popped two guards. They whirled around and pulled their guns, but didn't get a shot off. They fell face forward onto the floor at Ranger's feet.

"Damn it, Ranger!" I hissed at him.

"What?" he asked in an irritated grunt, turning so I could see that while he was holding the Glock in his right, he was holding a Model 179 Pneu-Dart air pistol in the other. I looked again, and there was a yellow plastic marker showing square on the gluteus of each of the guards. Now I really wasn't happy. Not only was he making me look like an idiot, he'd shot them left handed.

"Geez," Steph said to me. "You didn't really think Ranger was going to kill them, did you?"

I was speechless, my mouth open. I could tell she was actually as relieved as I was, so I let it slide. She had turned and followed Ranger into the control room where he was zipping and taping up his prisoners with an efficiency that I found distrubing. He'd done this kind of thing a lot. I looked over the bank of monitors, hoping that Gaspick would show up on one of the screens, but I didn't see him. There were several guard stations. I called in their locations to SWAT and we waited in the control room until they had secured the building.

"Where could he be?" Steph wondered, looking over my shoulder at the monitors as I manipulated the controls, searching the rooms one by one with the cameras while we waited. She started pacing behind me, thinking out loud. "Boone felt quite safe and at home here. He is also arrogant and playful. I think he would have him out in the open, where he could enjoy seeing him. I thought he was going to show me where he was later on, but…" She came back and watched the monitors with me again. I had searched the basement, the attic, the bedrooms…all listed by camera number on a computer schematic of the house. It looked like every room was monitored with only three cameras were blocked, requiring a password.

"Gotta be in one of these rooms," I said. Ranger looked over the schematic and took off. Damn. I stood to go after him.

"Wait," Steph said, pointing to a camera I'd missed. It was poised above a stone archway leading out to the gardens. "There's a guard posted here," she said, pointing to the monitor where she'd punched up the camera. "Look. He's just sitting there by that fountain."

I sat back down and zoomed in. "What is that?" I thought the statuary inside the fountain's perimeter was moving. "What is that?"

"Oh, Joe!" Steph gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, no!"

"We jumped up and ran. I was on the radio, giving instructions, as we raced out the glass doors to the grounds. The guard jumped up and aimed his rifle at us, but dropped it and held up his hands in submission when four more SWAT, Ranger, Tank, and three other RangeMen burst through the door behind us.

We skidded to a stop in front of the fountain which was apparently temperature controlled. The water wasn't freezing, but the air was, and the shivering figure tied to the base of the mermaid statue was being constantly doused with warm but putrid water.

"Gaspick?" I asked, not even recognizing the man. His skin was water-logged, distorted with anguish and pain, and his only reply was the wracking cough of one that was surely near death. He could hardly breathe. He was naked, and his waste, sick, and blood had mixed in the water of the little pool and it was this vile filth that was constantly washing over him.

Stephanie had caught one good whiff of the odor coming from the fountain and had started retching in the foliage beside the path. Ranger rubbed her back, speaking softly to her.

No one wanted to touch Gaspick, but it seemed inhuman to leave him tied there while we waited for EMS to arrive. They were at the front gate and had already been sent for, but it would take them several minutes to reach us. I reminded myself that this was my fellow officer, and I had to do no less for him than I would do for myself. I took a deep breath and jumped into the pool. The water came to mid-thigh. I flipped open my pocket knife and sawed through the cords that tied him to the statue. I was running out of air, and had to take a breath as soon as I had him free of the water falling over us. I had hold of him under his shoulders and pulled him to the side of the pool where others finally had come to help me pull him over the side. We laid Gaspick on the ground just as EMS arrived. They immediately started cleaning the filth from him. Several wounds were festering and bleeding, including all of his fingers and toes and nose. They had oxygen on him, and were giving him shots and inserting IV lines. I'd never seen anyone that sick before in my life, and I had seen a lot of things.

Stephanie was clinging to Ranger and was not looking eager to cling to me, covered as I was with excrement and filth. I marched back up to the house and jumped into the first shower I came to, stripping off all of my clothes and lathering up over and over and over, thinking I would never get the smell off. A house like this has tank-less hot water heaters, so you never run out of hot water. I didn't know how long I had been in there, but eventually there was a knock on the shower door.

"You drown?" It was Frank.

"Not yet," I said in a near whisper.

"Come on out. I've got you some clothes."

I shut off the water and took the towel that had suddenly appeared over the top of the shower stall. "Thanks." I wrapped it around my waist and stepped out of the shower door and into the spacious bathroom. The marble floor was cold and wet though the air was dense with steam. I was glad I couldn't see my reflection in the mirrors and that there was only one Frank sitting by the door on a padded wooden stool. The reeking clothes I'd shed were gone.

I took the clothes he held out for me. They were my own clothes. "These were in Steph's laundry at our house. Helen meant to have Steph return them to you, but you were broke up at the time, so…anyway, your Grandma Mazur said you needed them now, so here I am."

"Thanks," I said, not missing the way he was including me as part of the family. _My_ _Grandma Mazur_. That was a chilling thought, though desirous at the same time.

"Gaspick?" I asked.

"Air-lifted to St. Francis. Don't know yet."

I nodded. "He's bad." I shook my head, not knowing how he could have been alive at all.

"I heard."

"Steph?"

"She's really shaken up."

"She's with Ranger?" I asked, half-glad, half-sick.

"No, she's outside this door waiting for you. Don't know where _he_ went." Frank pulled a couple cigars out of his pocket and bit the end off one, handing me the other. I took it and he fished out his lighter. "I think we've still got time for one cigar."

When I was dressed and better composed, I stepped out of the bathroom and into Stephanie's arms. She didn't say anything, but her expression said it all. I was her hero.

I held her close as we walked down the long drive, back to the old cronies who were still arguing and bickering in and around the Lincoln. There was nothing left to do tonight, and I wasn't letting go of her. She had a long wool coat on, probably provided by Frank, and her hair was dark and curly again. The wig was sticking out of one of her coat pockets.

Coglin and Grandma Mazur were racing the dogs up and down the street, and the others appeared to be betting on the outcome. When Grandma won three out of four races with the Pit Bull, they switched and she still won.

"That shouldn't be possible," Coglin was explaining. "They both have the exact same system."

"I'm a better handler," Grandma was saying.

"Do they explode?" Stephanie asked, rather wary of getting too close.

"Are you kidding?" Coglin boomed. "Do you know what these things cost? I can sell these babies for big dollars. I'm not about to blow them up."

Steph turned to me. "Maybe I should get one of these remote controlled dogs for my apartment," she said.

"If you want a dog, you can borrow Bob," I told her.

"But Bob _explodes_. These don't." She gave me a big smile.

"Good point."

To be continued… 


	42. Chapter 42 Grossman's Funeral

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Morelli's POV 

I had reluctantly sent Stephanie home with Frank, who promised to keep an eye on her. I knew how difficult that could be since she'd always been one to slip out of the upstairs windows and shimmy down the tree.

I drove home in the Hummer since I still didn't have a vehicle and Big Blue was still at my place. Besides, that left Steph without transportation, and increased the likelihood that she'd stay put till morning. That is, unless she called Ranger, but who knew what pressing business had called him away.

I parked the Hummer in my garage and locked it up. I was surprised to find Bob tied to his line outside. I thought he'd been forgotten, and probably had been keeping up half the neighborhood with his howling, but then I realized Lucas was sitting on the back porch watching him.

"What's up?" I asked warily.

"Bob can't sleep," he said with a shrug. I thought he had one of my beers in his hands, but when I lifted his hand to inspect the can, it was just a Coke.

"Caffeine won't help," I said, slouching next to him on the steps. "Wanna talk about it?"

He shrugged. "Your cousin's being a pain in the ass," he said.

"Always has been," I told him.

"He won't let us leave the house."

"There's been a threat made against you. Those were my orders."

"He says you arrested Stanton. Is that true?"

"Yeah. Caught him red handed."

"Is he going to jail?"

"For a very long time. Even with the best criminal lawyer, he's not getting away," I assured him. "And he won't be getting any help from his buddy, Boone, either. He's sitting in the next cell."

This got me a sharp look. "No shit?"

"Hey! Watch the mouth," I told him.

Lucas glared at me. "You're as bad as he is." He fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and I took them away from him too. "Not like I'm smoking in the house," he complained.

"You could write a book," I said. "101 ways to kill yourself slowly." I tossed the cigarettes into the trash can, making sure they landed in the putrid potato salad someone had pitched so he couldn't fish them out later.

"Speaking of dying slowly, do we have to testify?"

"It would sure help me out if you were willing."

We sat in silence for awhile, watching Bob do his Bob things and laughing at him once in a while.

"I know about Stanton and that the Boys Home was a front. I know how he used you…all of you. I know he stashed guns in the office warehouse and I know that the corruption ran high up the chain," I told him. "You were right, it wasn't going to change and no one was listening...till now."

"Is Stanton going to get a deal if he rats on Boone?" he asked. Sharp kid.

"Yeah, but it's not enough of a deal that he's getting off. I didn't give him any choice."

"But, you're cutting him a deal?"

"I'm going to try to spare his life by cutting a deal to have him transferred to a facility where he's not in direct reach of Boone's influence. In exchange, he's got to give up everything on Boone. But they're both going to do maximum time if I have any say in it," I promised. "They killed Trenton's finest. They're not getting off."

"They can still operate on the inside, and you know that."

"I'm aware of what they can do. But you won't be returning to that system."

"There is no other system."

"So, what? You don't like it here?" I asked, waiving my hand to indicate I was referring to my own house where he had been a guest for the past few days.

"It's okay. But it's boring." I assumed Mooch was sitting on them like a mother hen.

"Are you safe here?"

He shrugged and slouched, knowing he wasn't going to win this argument. "Guess so."

"Mooch been feeding you?"

"Yeah."

"Getting to school okay?"

"Yeah," he said, rolling his eyes at me. "Sally picks us up. Hey, why is that guy called 'Sally' anyway?"

"You don't wanna know," I said, rolling my eyes and continuning down my mental list. "So, has Mooch been helping you get your homework done?"

"He's no help with that," Lucas said, making a gesture of futility with one hand.

I laughed. "Didn't figure he would be." He just smiled. "So, you want to leave then, and go back to the system?"

A dark look passed over his face. He just shrugged. He wanted to look like a tough guy, but I knew he wasn't. He was pretty soft, with a thin skin. I was surprised he'd made it this far.

"We can't stay here anyway, right? This was temporary till you caught Stanton. Now they'll assign someone new to be the House Monster and we'll be right back where we started with a new Boone, a new Stanton, and a new bunch of thugs in the house."

"Afraid not," I said with a little smile. "See, I turned in a report on the condition of Mt. Cooper's, and it's being condemned in the morning. The boys will be shipped to other homes, the office is closed pending investigation, and there is no system for you to return to."

"So we're going back to Juvie?"

"Well, I was thinking you guys might just stay here with your new House Monster."

"You're adopting us?"

I smiled. "Not that I wouldn't if I could, but I thought I would donate the house to the county if they agree to allow Mooch to stay on till he can earn his licensing."

"What's in it for you?"

"Tax write-off, and I have a line on another property that looks promising."

"So, you won't be living here?"

"No."

"Cool," Lucas said, trying to appear relieved.

"But I'll be by often enough to keep an eye on you, young man."

He made a face at me, but I knew we'd just made a connection for life. I don't think anyone had ever referred to him as a man before, in any sense of the word. He had a long way to go, but he was going to get there. I would see to it.

"Don't stay up too late," I said as I got up to go in, ruffling his hair as I passed just to let him know he wasn't that big yet. He slapped my hand away, and I left him watching Bob push a can around in a circle with his nose.

When my alarm went off, I showered, and once again put on my formal dress uniform. Grossman's funeral was at eleven o'clock at Mosel's.

I picked Steph up on the way. She was dressed in black slacks and a black sweater with gold beadwork. I suspected she'd borrowed the sweater from her mother. Her curls were swept back and pinned away from her face. We had just pulled away from the curb when the pins came out and she sighed long and loud.

"Your mother?"

She growled at me, rolling her eyes. Then she turned to look at me, taking in my uniform. "You sure look nice in that uniform," she said. I gave her my sexiest smile. "Not that nice," she said, turning to look out the side window.

We searched long and hard for a parking space but still ended up walking about a half mile to the funeral home. I walked in cautiously with Steph on my arm. We were almost the last to arrive, and the funeral was about to start. Scooter seated Stephanie beside her cousin, Shirley "the Whiner" Gazarra. I took my place in line with the other officers who were standing at attention for the service.

As the funeral progressed, I found myself tuning out the words. I searched the faces of all my Trenton PD brothers and sisters who were still left with targets on their backs. We had Stanton and Boone, but not Sanders, and I still didn't know who had kidnapped Gaspick from the hospital. Boone could still pay Sanders, even from prison, and he'd be glad to pay for my head on a platter. There were too many unanswered questions racing through my mind for me to relax.

The hospital had to have been an inside job. And someone had tipped Stanton off that I was coming to the warehouse. There was a traitor in our ranks. I looked at the serious faces of the men and women, one by one. Could I tell just from looking at them who got rich this week? Who was missing? Who was smart? Who knew where Gaspick was and how to get him out? Gaspick's disappearance took planning. Besides, someone had known that he'd been taken off the respirator that same morning. That was a short line of communication.

My first thought was that it could have been Andy Zabotsky. He was not Trenton PD. He worked for Sebring, a local bounty hunter. He might have given the information for money and then they killed him to keep it clean. But Andy couldn't have told anyone about the warehouse. That meant there was at least one other traitor, and Andy worked alone. That didn't fit. I kept looking.

Andy Diller. Jimmy Neeley. Barna, the rookie. Mickey Greene. Billy Kwiatikowski. Tom Bell, my fellow detective. Mallory, who had been unfortunate enough to have a wife who fooled around on him with Steph's ex-husband, Dickey Orr. I gave him a long, hard look, and then moved on. Steve Olmney and I had grown up together. Walt Becker. Vince Roman. Arnie Rupp…

Arnie Rupp worked in Violent Crimes. It was Arnie who tipped me off about the warehouse. His underling was Mickey Maglio, had been pulling security shifts at the hospital. I'd seen him there. All the bells went off while I looked at them. They weren't standing together as they normally would have. Something was off.

Mickey and Andy. They had a sick job with poor benefits. Who could blame them for wanting out, but at the expense of a guy like Gaspick? Sure. They despised him, and they had made no secret of it. But did they have anything to do with Grossman's murder? Surely they had prices on their heads too. They weren't fool enough to think any deal they might have made with Boone would be good. This was crazy. I needed proof.

I glanced towards Murphy who was our technical genius and saw him watching me. I gave him a deep, penetrating stare, and he nodded slightly. I looked hard at Arnie and then at Mickey, and he followed my gaze, nodding again, and slipped out of the line and quietly disappeared.

I looked at the Chief. What if the Chief had trusted Arnie and Mickey enough to tell them about Stephanie's plan to bring Boone in? Maybe it wasn't Madame Bouvier that ratted Steph out. Maybe it was Arnie and Mickey who told Boone. Maybe they weren't even dealing with Boone. Maybe they handed Gaspick to Sanders. Maybe they thought they were dealing with Sanders and didn't even know about Boone till Stephanie talked to the Chief. My head was spinning with possibilities.

The funeral ended, and we joined the procession out to the graveside. Stephanie again sat with Shirley and I stood at attention in line with the other officers.

Murphy elbowed his way in to stand beside me. "Boone is out on bail. The judge ruled the evidence was circumstantial because the house where Gaspick was held didn't belong to him. The bond was set at $100,000. He paid cash. Ruzick's out too."

I ground my teeth till they bled. Boone had bought a judge and now Boone, Ruzick and Dish were at large. There was definitely a price on my head, and Stephanie's too.

Then and there I decided there would only be one more funeral. And it would be mine.

To be continued… 


	43. Chapter 43 Knights of the Round Table

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Morelli's POV 

I hated Mondays, and today was very Monday. The sky was gray and blustery and a mist was coming down as we turned to walk away from the graveside. I pulled a pen and small notebook from my pocket and wrote down several names. I tore off the sheet and handed it to Murphy with instructions that there was no time to lose and we would all meet at my house immediately following the reception and to keep it dead quiet. Murphy nodded. He knew I wasn't kidding.

At 3:00 my kitchen table was covered with crumpled papers as plans were made, dissected, and rejected. Stephanie, Mooch, Costanza, Big Dog, Gazarra, Murphy, Diller, Neeley, and Vince Roman from the coroner's office were scratching our heads, trying to figure out a plan that would accomplish all of our goals. We weren't making much headway and I was afraid it was due to a lack of information more than a lack of ideas on our part.

"Okay," I said, standing and stretching. I pulled out my chair and started pacing in front of the sink where I could think. "Let's start all over from the beginning." Everyone groaned.

"Boone, Ruzick, and Dish are free on bond and Sanders is FTA right now. So, unless a crime is witnessed, Sanders is the only one we can touch," Stephanie repeated.

"And what are Boone, Ruzick, Dish and Sanders doing right now?" I asked rhetorically.

"Boone's guns, the ones that were stored by Stanton at the marina, have been confiscated by ATF. So, he probably figures he's owed some money from Stanton who is in the pokey," Gazarra said. "Problem is Stanton's operation got shut down and his boys are in Juvie."

"Except for the two you've got here, but they say they never played ball," Costanza added.

"Hey," Steph jumped up. "Why was Stanton telling Dish that the problem with Lucas and Joe had been taken care of? What did that mean?"

"We still don't know," Mooch said. "I've asked the boys a number of times if there is anything they know that can help us, but they say they've told us everything."

"You believe them?" She asked.

"I don't know. It's possible Stanton just wants them out of the way so they can't testify against him, but their testimony won't make much difference to his prosecution. Their murders, however, would be very detrimental, so I'm not sure why he'd risk it unless he's really PO'd about something."

"There's something else I don't get…" Stephanie was saying as the back door opened and, speak of the devils, Lucas and Joe walked in.

"Just in time to answer a few questions, boys," I said, pulling up two more chairs and pushing them into them.

"What's up?" Lucas asked nervously. We were still in our dress uniforms and this looked like a very official meeting.

Steph cleared her throat to get their attention. "We were just wondering how it was that you two were alone in the dark of night, painting in a dangerous section of town the night you took Mooch's van, and this notoriously dangerous hitter from MS-13 just happened to pass by, casually ask you where he could find Varela, and then walk on by?"

"That's what happened," Joe insisted, looking her right in the eye.

"You know, a body turned up in the morgue. An 18th Street gang member was hung by the neck from a chain and stabbed 13 times. We're figuring he was also questioned about Varela's whereabouts," Costanza said.

"We heard about that," Joe said coolly.

"That's not a very consistent picture, is it?" I asked, leaning over the table.

"You calling me a liar?" Joe asked hotly.

"Yeah, I'm calling you a liar," I said, yanking him out of his seat and slamming him down on top of the table. Lucas's eyes bugged out of his head and I think he may have wet his pants.

"You two run from trouble every chance you get. I'd bet a million dollars that you would have run like hell if you saw a guy with a face covered in gang tattoos was headed your way," I said. "You didn't exchange two words with that guy. I want the truth. I want the real story, and I want it now!" I slammed Joe into the table top again for extra emphasis. "Lives are on the line, including yours!"

"Okay! Okay!" Joe yelled, trying to push me off him. I tossed him to his feet and he stumbled back against the sink. "There was no guy covered in tattoos. We made that up so we wouldn't be in so much trouble when we came back."

"You never saw the guy?"

"There was no MS-13 guy with facial tattoos. We lied. We made him up."

I ran my hand through my hair and tried not to scream. "So, where did you go and what were you doing?"

Joe opened his mouth to start explaining, but I already knew it was going to be a lie, so I reached out and yanked Lucas out of his seat and held him up off the floor, looking him right in the eye while his feet were dangling. "The _truth_!"

"We were getting a lot of pressure from Stanton's crews to sell dope for him. Even though you put him away, he's still got influence in the school. We were selling paint from the van so we could give the crew some money," Lucas said while he was hyperventilating.

"Where is the dope they gave you?" I asked, afraid I probably already knew.

"We got rid of it," Lucas said.

"Got rid of it how?" I pressed.

"We smoked it."

I threw him back down in his seat with disgust. "You sold Mooch's paint to pay for the weed you smoked?"

"Sort of," Lucas said, pulling his shirt back into place. "I guess we didn't think of it like that."

"Did you ever, even once, tell Mooch you were having problems like this at school?" I asked.

"No. There's nothing he can do about it," Lucas said defensively.

"How would you know?" I asked. "You didn't even try."

"You promised Boone wasn't getting out, but we just heard he's free as a bird," Joe yelled, his index finger jabbing accusingly at me.

"And, as you can see, we're working on the problem," I said, making a circle with my index finger to indicate the knights of my round table.

"Yeah, whatever," Joe said, turning to go upstairs.

"Get back here!" I yelled, but Joe kept walking. Lucas jumped up and ran after him.

"So, there is no tattoo-faced MS-13 hitter?" Stephanie asked.

"There's one more body we don't have a story matched to," Roman groaned.

"Yeah," I groaned. "That didn't help."

"Maybe it did," Stephanie said. "From what I heard Stanton say to Dish, Stanton wanted a bigger piece of the pie and he wanted Sanders to make some sort of deal with Boone, and if he wouldn't, Stanton said _he_ would propose it to Boone himself and he'd cut Sanders out of the deal completely. What deal is he talking about and what did that deal have to do with Lucas and Joe? Maybe they overheard something and they don't even know it."

"Could be. They're just a decade short of being Mooner and Dougie," I said.

"Who? Dougie the Dealer and that Moonbeam fella?" Gazarra asked with a laugh. "Yeah, they're well on their way.

"Hey!" Stephanie said indignantly. "Those guys have given me some of my most valuable leads. They're just full of information, if you can just figure out how to get at it."

"We don't have time to psychoanalyze to Bobbsey Twins," I said.

"Well, I'm sorry. It takes patience," she said, and I stopped dead in my tracks. We looked at each other for a second, soaking up the irony.

"Did you just tell me I need to have patience?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Cupcake, I'm all out of patience. And we're out of time."

"Why? We've found Gaspick. There's been a price on your heads for weeks. What's changed?"

"What do you think Boone is doing right now?" I asked. I looked around the table. "What _should_ Boone be doing right now if he's smart?"

"He's going to be eliminating all the potential stool pigeons and sending them to see me," Roman said with certainty.

"So, who's on his list?" I asked, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper.

"I guess Stanton and Sanders could be liabilities since they might both want to cut a deal with you, huh?" Steph said, finally catching on.

"You think?" I was being a jerk again, but sometimes she tried my patience…and like I said, I didn't have any left. "And without Stanton and Sanders, I don't have any major witnesses and my case is in the crapper! So, you see, I don't have a lot of time left!" I guess I was yelling, but I was under a lot of stress.

Stephanie was sucking back tears, determined not to cry in front of the guys. That made me feel like more of a jerk, and that made me even angrier.

"Who else?" I demanded from the group. "Who's on Boone's hit list?"

"You are," Stephanie said, a tear escaping as she pulled her chair back and excused herself.

"Who else?" I asked, ignoring her as she closed the door to the bathroom. "Come on, guys! Think! Who else? Who are we missing here? Think!" I pounded my fist into the table in disgust. "_Our_ stoolies! Our traitorous back-stabbing fellow officers!"

"Arnie and Mickey?" Big Dog said, looking up at me. "Yeah, they've got to go."

"I want them in the lock up…not lying comfortably on a silk pillow with a wreath of flowers!" I yelled.

There was a general murmur of agreement, but it died quickly.

"So, we've got to get evidence on Arnie and Mickey, quick, so we can get them put away."

"How do we do that?" Big Dog asked.

"We offer them a deal from Boone."

"Say what?" Costanza gasped.

"We're going to make them think they have a chance to stay in Boone's good graces if they eliminate an even bigger threat."

"What threat?" Costanza's eyes were wide. "You don't mean…"

"Me."

_To be continued…_


	44. Chapter 44 Steph's POV Romance

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Stephanie's POV 

I overheard everything that was being planned from the bathroom. At first, I was angry that they went on without me, but then I realized Morelli felt a lot more comfortable arranging his own murder when I wasn't in the same room. I didn't feel comfortable about it in any room so I decided to stay put where there was since the bathroom had a large supply of tissue on a roll.

I heard the party break up and when the house was silent again, Morelli knocked softly on the bathroom door.

"You still in there?" he asked.

"Where else would I be?" I sniffed.

He eased the door open. "Oh, I don't know. I thought you might have snuck out the window." The downstairs bathroom was only a small half-bath. I was sitting on the floor with my back against the sink cabinet. Morelli came in and closed the door behind him, sitting on the floor facing me, his back against the shower wall. "I'm a jerk, huh?"

"I didn't say anything," I sniffed.

"You didn't have to." He took my hand. "You were listening?"

I nodded.

"then you know I can't do this without your help."

I nodded again and wiped my eyes.

"Think you'll be able to cry like this when I need you to?" he asked, trying to get a smile out of me.

I shrugged. "What if something goes wrong?" I asked.

"It won't," he said.

"But what if?"

"You'll be alright," he said, taking my hand.

"I'm not worried about me," I said, my voice breaking. I wasn't able to look at him. He could read me too well.

I expected him to give me a lot of reasons why I should trust his judgment, a lecture on how this was a police matter, and then he'd tell me a few jokes before making a pass at me. But he didn't. He turned on his side and lay down on the floor with his head in my lap and he just lay there while I put my arms around him and played with his hair. He was still wearing the uniform with his vest on underneath. I unbuttoned the jacket and dress shirt and helped him out of the vest. He lay back down without a word and seemed to be much more comfortable. He didn't look into my eyes or smile at me. His eyes were closed. He was tired, but he was awake. He just wanted to be with me. We hadn't had much intimacy in our relationship. We'd had a lot of beer and pizza, but not many romantic moments. Not that sitting on a bathroom floor was my idea of romance, but seeing a vulnerable side to Morelli was rare and I didn't want the moment to pass too quickly. The shadows grew long as the sun went down until we were left sitting in the dark. The house was quiet and we may as well have been alone.

Morelli was playing with my fingers, kissing my fingertips and touching them to his cheek, rubbing them gently against his stubbly chin.

"You're scared," I whispered.

"Of course I'm scared."

"Me too." He kissed the palm of my hand and pressed it to his heart.

"If anything goes wrong, I want you to know that I'm still going to take care of you."

I gave a little laugh. "How?"

"I've always intended to take care of you." He paused. "I hope you know that if you ever _had_ shown up on my doorstep with the preacher, wearing a wedding dress, I would have married you." He chuckled.

"I thought I was the one who wasn't ready," I said.

"I don't know. You're the one who picked a date and bought a dress."

"I was under duress. Besides, _you_ don't want to marry _me_, remember? You hate my job."

"I told you. I'm over it."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, 'Marry me'." In the dark, I felt him take my hand and slip a ring onto my left ring finger. His head was still in my lap, and he held my left hand tight against his chest. I could feel his heart beating fast, waiting for my response.

For a second I couldn't feel anything. I was in shock. "Is this for real?" I whispered. "That's not a Cracker Jack prize, is it?"

"For real," he whispered back. "Twenty-four karat with a diamond."

I thought I might burst into tears, but I didn't. I kept calmly breathing in and out. This was what I had wanted for so long. Morelli was asking me to marry him. Morelli was okay with my job. Morelli didn't expect me to be a housewife. Morelli was asking me to help him on one of the most important cases he'd ever had in his life. He needed me. He wanted me. He loved me.

"Okay," I whispered.

"Is that a 'yes'?

"Yes.

_To be continued..._

_Sorry I've been gone so long! Please review! Thanks! - Autumn_


	45. Chapter 45 Disarming the Pigeons

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Morelli's POV 

Tuesday morning I woke alone. I had sent Stephanie home to her parents' house. I needed time to think and prepare. I showered, put on my best in uniform, made coffee, walked Bob, and was on my way to the station before anyone else was awake.

I sat nervously at my desk going over the files, but seeing nothing. Finally, at nine o'clock, my cell phone rang. It was Stephanie.

"It's a go," she said.

"Okay. We'll be watching."

Barna came in a few minutes later ready to drive me around for today. I was babysitting again. Five traffic stops, two jaywalking tickets, a domestic dispute, two reported shootings, and a Big Mac later, I finally got a text message that phase one of our plan was in motion.

"Let's head back to the station," Barna said about an hour later. "We're due on the range in 20 minutes."

"Scratch that. I had Neeley reschedule us for Friday," I said.

"Why?" Barna looked confused.

"I'm just not up for it today."

"Okay. Well, we still need to get some of this paperwork turned in, and I need some coffee," Barna said as he turned around and took us back to the station.

"Fine by me."

Neeley was working the gun cage, and had just texted me that Arnie and Mickey had agreed to the switch and were scheduled on the range. Once Neely was sure they had expended all of their live ammo, he would clean their guns and replace their ammo with blanks. While they were on the range, Gazarra and Murphy were searching their offices, lockers, and vehicles for any other live ammo. Costanza and Big Dog were searching their houses. Both men lived alone. By the end of the day, Arnie and Mickey would be two unarmed cops under constant surveillance by their own.

Gazarra was waiting for me by my office when we returned.

"He's here," Gazarra said. "He's in with them now."

We waited in my office until we saw Dickie Orr walk past. As he walk down the hall, Gazarra got up and followed him out. I stayed put watching for Arnie and Mickey. My phone buzzed with another text message.

Barna brought me a coffee, and gave me a questioning look. I must have looked a little green around the gills. Behind him I saw Arnie and Mickey walking down the hall and watched them in the concave mirror in the hallway as they headed towards the gun range.

"We better get back out there," he said. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm coming," I told him. "I just need to check on something first."

He nodded went back to the outer office for more sugar. I quickly dialed Stephanie.

"How's our little project coming?"

"We are ready to make delivery."

"That's good because you have customers."

"Be careful, Joe," she said as she hung up.

I joined Barna, and we cruised Trenton on the lookout for crime for the rest of the afternoon. At four o'clock we returned to the station, and I headed for the showers.

I was lathering up for the fourth time when I finally heard Arnie and Mickey call out to me.

"Hey Morelli, you drown in there?"

"I'm not sure he feels good," Barna told them. "He hasn't been himself today."

I had rinsed off and stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist.

"Yeah well he doesn't smell that good either," Mickey said. "Seriously, how can you stand the drive around with this guy?" Mickey picked up my vest from the bench where I'd left it. He pretended to give it a sniff, made a face, and passed it over to Arnie who did the same.

"Getting a little ripe there," Arnie agreed.

"He's got to wear a vest," Barna said.

"No question. But does he have to wear _this_ vest every day? You're like one of those guys with the lucky socks that never wash them. What do you say you let us take care of this for you?" Arnie said. He took the vest to his own locker and pulled out another vest. "Here. This one is just as good and it's clean."

Gazarra came around the corner of the lockers. He had seen Arnie put my best in his own locker. I reached out and took the vest from Arnie, and pretended to inspect it. It looked just like mine except it was clean and had a little tag with orange writing sewn on the corner.

"This looks brand-new," I said. "But some of the stitching on the side doesn't match. Where'd you get this?"

"It is new," Arnie said. "And beggars can't be choosers. Don't worry, we'll get yours dry cleaned for you and you can have it back. We'll even send you the bill!" Mickey and Arnie started laughing. Barna smiled, and so did Gazarra. I tried to look like I was trying not to laugh.

I put on a clean undershirt, then slipped the vest on. It was a perfect fit.

"Fine," I growled, making it apparent that I was having to try very hard to be gracious. "If we are going to be wearing these things all the time, I guess something is going to have to be done about the sweat. I can't believe how hot these things get."

"Yeah, no kidding." Mickey elbowed me. "You know, if someone around here was doing his job, maybe we wouldn't have to be wearing these every day."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Gazarra piped up.

"Just that if Morelli here was doing his job properly, Boone and his thugs wouldn't be back out on the streets. Ever heard of gathering evidence before bringing in the bad guy?" He laughed heartily.

"You're out of line," Barna told him, taking a step forward.

"It's okay," I said holding my arm out to separate barn from Mickey. "He's just kidding."

"That's right, kid," Mickey said condescendingly. "I'm just messing with him."

Barna was already dressed so I told him to go on home. Gazarra and I followed him out. I was driving Big Blue today, but I didn't want to attract that much attention where we were going, so I jumped in Gazarra's car and we drove three blocks before parking behind a utility van.

The van flashed its parking lights, the signal that it was safe to approach. The back door opened as we neared, and we jumped in. When the door shut a light came on, and we were face to face with two ATF agents we had worked with before. I untucked my shirt and showed them the tag on my Kevlar vest. They took pictures and took written testimony from me and from Gazarra.

When we were finished, they punched a few buttons on their computer and pulled up the recording they had made just hours earlier. Dickie's oily voice was unmistakable. We listened as he identified himself as Boone's representative. At first Mickey and Arnie laughed in his face and refused to believe him. They thought it was a practical joke. They knew Dickey was Stephanie's ex-husband, however it did not take much for him to convince them that he would like to see her dead as much as Boone. That was probably easy for him because it was true. Mickey and Arnie also knew that she had been accused of trying to kill Dickie in the past. No love lost there. They also knew that Boone was surrounded by professionals rather than street goons, and Dickie had been involved with some very shady characters recently. It made sense that if Boone wanted to contact them he would send a lawyer rather than a criminal, although that is a very fine distinction.

Dickey outlined a deal from Boone. If Mickey and Arnie demonstrated their loyalty by eliminating me and Sanders at the same time, he would take care of the other pigeons, leaving Mickey and Arnie in charge of his new operations. Dickey ran some numbers by them… big numbers. Then he told them a meeting would be arranged at the end of the week. By that time, Boone expected me to be in the ground. Arnie and Mickie would need to bring a detailed plan for their new distribution routes to the meeting for Boone's approval. Mickey was the one to ask whether their plans involved Stephanie. Dickey said not to worry about it. Boone had plans for her. My blood ran cold as I listened to two of my closest friends laughing as they plotted our deaths.

Gazarra reached over and patted me on the back. "It's times like this you find out who your true friends are."

I chewed another antacid. I was thinking that at times like this there just isn't enough Maloxx.

The official part of the meeting seemed to have been concluded. What remained was idle chitchat, but it wasn't. Dickey reminded Mickey and Arnie that they had to take me and Sanders out at the same time, preferably in public. Arnie suggested sniping us. Dickey pointed out there would be an issue with ballistics and it was possible the sniper would be caught on some surveillance video if it was done in a public place as Boone had asked. He had a better idea. He suggested allowing me to blow myself up, thereby taking Sanders along with me. They discussed who they knew that was capable of making such a device.

Dickie suggested that they visit Dougie the Dealer. This got a resounding laugh. All the cops knew Dougie. If it fell off a truck, you could get it from Dougie. If you couldn't find the title and registration for your car, you could still sell it through Dougie. Dougie smoked a lot of dope and was pretty benign. He was also hard to take seriously. Then Dickie explained that Dougie had obtained some military grade explosives, which could easily be camouflaged by a Kevlar vest and detonated from a distance. In fact, Dickey had already taken the initiative and ordered one made using an assumed name. All Arnie and Mickey would have to do is pay for it and pick it up. Dickey also pointed out that an incendiary device purchased from Dougie would be very difficult to trace back to Mickey and Arnie. Dougie would make a very questionable witness it best were he ever to be put on the stand to testify against them. Leave it to a lawyer to make a flimsy argument sound solid.

It didn't take long for Arnie and Mickey to put together the most obvious plan. They would get me to switch vests, they would tip me off to Sanders' location, and when I brought Sanders out onto the street, they would detonate the explosives. Within five minutes, Dougie was assured an afternoon visit.

Gazarra drove me back to the station. I climbed into Big Blue and drove home, stopping at Pino's on the way where I was rewarded with a thumbs-up from Richie. Everything was going according to plan.

_To be continued..._


	46. Chapter 46 Steph's POV Rest 4 the Wicked

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

Morelli and I were just sitting down to dinner with Mooch and the boys when Morelli's cell phone rang. He got up from the table and walked outside to take the call. When he returned he had his cop face on.

"Good news?" I asked.

"It was the lead I've been expecting," he said.

"Do we need to go now?" I asked. I assumed we'd have a lot of things to do in preparation if we were going to catch Arnie and Mickey in the act.

"No. You were right. We need to have patience." Morelli picked up his fork and stabbed a meatball. I felt his feet searching mine out under the table. We locked ankles and he gave me a satisfied look. "Eat your dinner."

We listened to the boys talk about their day at school, Mooch complained about the laundry, Morelli groused about his babysitting gig, and I soaked it all up. It suddenly felt like a family.

Family! I was going to have to explain to my family not only that Joe and I were engaged but that he wasn't actually being killed! That would not be easy to do under any circumstances. Then I realized we were going to have to do it twice. I could not even imagine the look on Joe's mother's face when she heard what we were planning to do – in either instance. Morelli seemed to be reading my face because he squeezed my ankle and smiled reassuringly.

I helped Mooch clean up the table before we left. Once we were alone in a Hummer, Morelli filled me in on the situation with Sanders.

"It seems that Sanders is holed up at the Happy Acres rest home," Morelli said.

"You have got to be kidding me," I said. "What the heck kind of gangster hides behind a bunch of old people?"

"A desperate one who likes to lay around in bed watch TV and get three square meals a day, not to mention sponge baths by younger nurses. Not a bad deal if you ask me."

I pulled Sanders file out of my bag and had another look. Sanders had thick gray hair that loosely resembled Einstein's, but maybe I just thought that because of the nerdy glasses. He was listed on the sheet as being 55 years old, about 5'8", and had the kind of body that was once skinny as a rail but was now on its way to becoming a pear.

"He could be on a cruise in the Caribbean for what they're charging him to stay at a rest home," I said in disbelief.

"I think he wants to stay close. He wants to stay in Trenton."

"Okay, what's the plan?"

"This one's yours," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Hey, he's your FTA."

"You mean it? Isn't this a police matter?"

"Arnie and Mickey are mine. Sanders is yours. You tell me how we're going to get him. I think we should go in tonight."

"First things first. How do we even know if he's there?"

"I sent Mr. Kleinschmidt to check."

"You what?"

"Mr. Kleinschmidt went to see if he is there. I sent Gazarra over with the picture. Kleinschmidt is a sharp old bird. If he is there, he'll find him."

"And what happens if he finds him?"

"He's going to make sure that Sanders has a good night's sleep."

"He's going to drug him?"

"Yep. That was Mr. Kleinschmidt's idea."

"Where'd he get the drugs?"

"Said he had plenty."

"Great! And I'm supposed to break him out?"

"Something like that."

"I thought you weren't going to go after Arnie and Mickey until tomorrow."

"I'm not. I'm thinking that instead of giving Sanders a chance to get away when the bomb goes off, I would like to use a decoy."

I looked back down at the picture of Sanders. "I'm not sure I know anyone who would fit this description."

"Even after a trip to the beauty salon? A little makeup, a little hair dye…"

I gave it some thought. Vinnie fit the bill but he was too Italian and he didn't have enough hair. Mooner was too tall and besides Arnie and Mickey had probably seen him at Dougie's. As I racked my brain and my brain did what it always does when confounded. It went to the mall. And it was in the mall that it found Melvin Pickle. Melvin's hair was sandy brown, but it had grown out quite a bit and he could possibly pass from a distance. They were about the same height and build. We could put him a leisure suit or sweats and maybe we'd get away with it.

After a whirlwind tour of the Burg in which we had regretfully enlightened those friends and family members that were in the "need to know", and having endured the happy tears (my mother), well wishes (my dad and Joe's mom), embarrassing personal questions (Grandma Mazur), hand wringing (both mothers), and death threats should anything bad happen to Joe (that was from Bella), we prepared our ears to be assailed as we boarded Sally's bus and headed for Happy Acres.

Lula, Sally, and Grandma Mazur were in their element up on stage. They may not have had fashion sense, any musical ability whatsoever, and they certainly no sense of shame, but they had what it takes. They were all first rate show-offs. And while they were showing off their stuff, you just had to look. It wasn't that you wanted to look. It was just that you had no other choice. The human eye is not designed to comprehend what it is seeing when confronted with this motley crew. Lula, dressed in her neon green spandex sequined outfit, was gyrating to "Rolling on the River" like Tina Turner. Sally looked like Chewbacca in a thong and he kind of sounded like him too. Grandma Mazur was wearing a sleeveless, silver sequined number and had overdone the black eyeshadow, making her look like one of those little "gray" extraterrestrials with the big round, slanted eyes that people say abduct people from their beds in the night.

While everyone's eyes were glued to the stage, Dylan and I borrowed a wheelchair and went out to the bus to collect Melvin. Melvin's hair had been dyed gray and teased so that it was standing almost straight up. He pushed his glasses up his nose, and made a face at me.

"I don't know about this," he whined.

"It'll be fine. Think of it as a Holiday Inn."

"It's not going to smell like the Holiday Inn," he complained.

"Don't be such a baby. I thought you wanted in on the action," Dylan snickered.

"This doesn't feel like action. This feels like I'm being used as a Barbie doll."

"You should just be glad you're being used as Ken and not Barbie," I told him. "We could have had Sally put you in a dress."

Melvin pulled his baggy sweat pants up nervously. I pushed him down into the wheelchair, and Dylan wheeled him in. We followed Mr. Kleinschmidt's directions, and soon came to room 308B. Sure enough, lying in bed sound asleep was Sanders. I double-checked the photo just to make sure. It was hard to tell without his glasses, so I stuck them on him. Yep, it was Sanders.

Melvin stood up, and Dylan and I wrangled Sanders into the wheelchair. We put his glasses back on him, put slippers on his feet, covered him with a blanket, and prepared to wheel him out the door.

"Make yourself at home, Melvin," Dillon said, tossing him the remote to the television set.

Melvin pulled back the covers on the bed and made a face. "Can't I have some clean sheets?" Melvin asked.

"There's only one way to get your sheets changed around here," Dylan said laughing as we left a perplexed Melvin to wonder what that one way was.

We had planned to wheel Sanders back out to the bus where we would lay him safely in the center aisle handcuffed to the seats. Morelli was lying low in the bus, so he would be keeping an eye on Sanders while Dylan and I returned inside to play roadies. By ten o'clock, we figured most of the seniors would have seen enough, and we could pack it in.

What we hadn't figured on was a nosy nurse who seemed immune to anything that was going on around her and the security bracelet securely fastened to Sanders left wrist. The nurse was watching the front door like a hawk. If we set the alarm system off there was no way we were going to make it to the bus.

"Is there any other way out of here?" I asked.

"Only one other way," Dillon said with a hint of morose.

"Cripes! What do you mean? We can only get him out of here if he's already dead?"

"Looks that way," he agreed.

We wheeled Sanders up and down the halls until we found a door that said "employees only". I stood nearby pretending to be absorbed in a jigsaw puzzle that had been glued and framed while a nurse came by and punched in the security code. Now I had a code so I wouldn't set the alarms off. I just needed a way to get from the back side of the building to the front side of the building without being seen. Yeah right.

"I'm calling for backup," I told Dylan.

Within 20 minutes my phone rang. Our transportation had arrived. It was a good thing too. Dylan and I had borrowed scrubs from a linen closet, and were trying hard to pretend we were employees. Some of the old folks who had seen us before we changed, and even while donned the scrubs, didn't seem to remember we'd been there all along and were asking us the same questions over and over. They were driving me crazy. I didn't know how anyone could do this job and stay sane.

I punched in the security code, and we wheeled Sanders down a dark hall and through another door that also accepted the security code. At last we were outside standing on a short loading dock. Carl Coglin was there with his hearse, which seemed to be attracting no attention whatsoever. He was wearing a black suit, and he looked a little less crazy than usual without his shovel full of road-kill.

I wheeled Sanders to the back of the hearse and Dylan and Carl dragged him inside and dropped him - kerplop! - into the freezer. Carl slapped a padlock on it, and they climbed back out of the back of the hearse.

"Hey! Wait a minute! Won't he freeze in there? Can he breathe? I don't want to kill him," I said to Carl in a mild panic.

"Nah, I can't get the darn thing to stay on. If it does come on it will only be for a few minutes. And it has a drain tube that's clear. I just cleaned it yesterday. He can breathe."

That did not instill me with confidence. "I need to ride to the station with Carl," I said to Dylan. "You'll have to go back in the way we came and return these scrubs and the wheelchair or they might be missed. And make sure Melvin's behaving himself."

"No problem," he said, and he disappeared back inside.

I called Morelli to tell him about the change of plans.

"Don't you leave me here with these miscreants! Pick me up," Morelli ordered.

I had Carl swing around front where Morelli was waiting for us in the dark shadow of the bus. Morelli climbed in and looked in the back of the hearse and shook his head in disbelief.

"I know how he feels," he said with a chuckle.

"I'm glad you can laugh about it now," I said.

A mischievous smile broke across Morelli's face. "It'll never happen again," he said.

"Oh yeah?" I raised my eyebrows at him. "How can you be so sure?"

"I didn't know you that well. I never dreamed you would actually lock me in that freezer. But now I know what you're capable of."

I felt my eyebrows knit together as I have him a hurt look.

Morelli put his arm around me and pulled me close. "Well, let's just say that now I know you're capable, and leave it at that."

"Smart man," we heard Coglin mutter under his breath.

I smiled to myself in the dark as Morelli kissed my temple. _My man._

_To be continued…_


	47. Chapter 47 Steph's POV Losing Morelli

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

Morelli drove me back to my parents' house, but we sat in the car talking until the sun came up. We talked about being kids together. We talked about our families. We talked about falling in love again and told each other all our little secrets…well, almost all. Then, for the first time, we started talking about our future.

We both wanted to stay in Trenton. We both wanted to make a difference. We wanted to be able to use our talents for some good purpose. We wanted to help other people. We wanted to be free and out on the streets, not stuck behind a desk or working the line at the button factory. And we agreed we wanted a home – someplace that belonged to us, not just a place we slept at night like Ranger's apartment on Haywood. We wanted security, but it was hard to fathom having a place that wouldn't be spray-painted, torched, and blown up within 6 months.

Then Morelli asked me the strangest question. Morelli is very down to Earth. He has very little imagination, which is often a point of contention between us because I have way too much imagination. He asked me if I would like having a magic house that moved around and was difficult to find at night.

"A magic house?" I asked.

"It was just a thought," he said, stroking my hair.

"I'd like that," I said.

"And a magic car, to get there?"

"A super-hero car?" I asked.

"Yes. A super-hero car." He nuzzled my ear. "Would you like that?"

"Yeah," I said half asleep. "I'd like that."

About 7:00 Gazarra pulled up next to us, and Morelli deposited me in his passenger seat and took off for his own house to get cleaned up. Gazarra took me to Tasty Pastry for donuts and coffee. By 9:00 I was sitting in a surveillance van with Gazarra and two ATF guys Gazarra seemed friendly with.

I was trying to decide whether I wanted to watch this or not. I had spent the day with Carl and Bernie while they were constructing the vest. I knew that the metal plates that lined the inside were supposed to keep Morelli safe. I trusted Carl's experience, but I watched everything he did and questioned every step, knowing Morelli's life depended on the vest working perfectly. I know Bernie is an electronics wiz, but his homemade devices hadn't worked so well up to now. Carl and Bernie worked together on the electronics and the detonator. Carl usually used an infrared device with a very short range. Bernie brought experience with radio waves and frequencies and things I didn't understand. I knew they were trying to make the detonator work at a distance of 50 yards since they didn't know at the time how far away Morelli would be from Arnie and Mickey, plus they needed it to seem like a professional job.

I was also a little worried about Melvin. I was the one who roped him into this, and it was possible he could be hurt if there was a malfunction or if Arnie and Mickey decided to open fire on them. I tried to think positive thoughts, but my heart was having a hard time finding a rhythm it liked, and my doughnuts were like bricks in my stomach.

At 9:30, a black and white pulled up. Barna and Morelli got out. Morelli was trying to get rid of Barna. While they were still talking, Arnie's Lincoln pulled into a doctor's office parking lot on the opposite side of the lake. From the front doors of the rest home, it would be hard to see the occupants. A large fountain situated in the middle of the lake shooting water twenty feet into the air intermittently obstructed the view. But from our vantagepoint on top of a nearby parking garage, we could see that Arnie and Mickey were both in the car. They were 75 to 100 yards from the front door. I felt my heart give a panicked little beat. What if they were too far away? Would the detonator work? And what would they do if it didn't?

Barna didn't seem to want to let Morelli go in alone. Finally, Morelli seemed to get angry with him, pushing Barna into the driver's seat and pointing out a place where he was to park and wait for him. As Barna pulled away, Morelli stood for a moment in the doorway, looking across the fountain at Arnie and Mickey. Mickey gave him an impatient little salute. I supposed they told him they were providing backup. Morelli knew I was there too, watching him, but he didn't give us away with so much as a glance. He turned slowly and walked into the Happy Acres rest home and disappeared behind the sliding glass doors.

Ten minutes later, Morelli reappeared in the doorway with Melvin. From a distance I couldn't tell that it wasn't Sanders. Melvin appeared to have his hands cuffed behind his back. They were walking cautiously out the doors, Morelli keeping him to his side and maybe just slightly behind. I knew Melvin had a vest on too, and safety glasses, but who knew how powerful the device would be. It had to look real.

Morelli paused, looking over the water. It was a beautiful morning. There were two nurses sitting on a bench by the fountain having a smoke. Two seniors were getting their morning exercise, hobbling along the garden path with their walkers. Birds were singing, the sun was shining, and a plane was soaring overhead. And then it happened.

I looked away. I didn't see it happen. Gazarra unconsciously gripped my arm, and I waited with bated breath for him to tell me Morelli was all right.

"Eddie?"

Suddenly there was radio static and shouts of "Go! Go! Go!" were heard. I opened my eyes and followed Gazarra's fixed gaze to a video monitor. ATF agents were exiting from a nearby delivery van and swarming around Arnie and Mickey. There were shots fired from inside the vehicle. None of the ATF agents returned fire. One of them wrenched open the driver's door and pulled Arnie out. Arnie was shooting at them, but nothing was happening. He was quickly subdued. Seeing this, Mickey gave up, exiting the vehicle on his own and lying face down on the ground where he was cuffed. "Scene secure," someone said.

I looked at the other monitor and saw a crowd of people standing around the doors of Happy Acres. A siren wailed, and an ambulance quickly appeared out of nowhere. Costanza and Big Dog were on the scene holding back the crowd. Buckey and Kenney were there along with other EMS. I could see the crime photographer arrive and then Vince Roman was there. I couldn't see Morelli. The ambulance was parked in the way. I could see Melvin's legs and it looked like he was moving and the EMS people were working on him.

"Eddie? What did you see? Did it work like it was supposed to? Do you think they're all right?"

Eddie took my hand in his. "I saw a huge blood splatter and smoke. Morelli dropped like a rock. Melvin wasn't cuffed and pulled his hands free and put them to his face and was rolling around on the ground for a second before lying still. It probably smacked him in the face pretty hard. He was covered in the fake blood. Morelli's uniform came open like it was supposed to. It looked pretty real. Kenny and Buckey were there in time to make sure it looked good for the photos. If it didn't work, EMS would probably be taking them away in the ambulance by now, or they'd be administering CPR. I think everything must be okay."

We were watching and waiting. Word came from ATF that they had good prints on the attempted murder weapon. The case against Arnie and Mickey looked solid.

Gazarra helped me out of the van and we got into his cruiser and headed over to the crime scene. They were loading Morelli into the ambulance when we got there. We followed the procession to St. Francis. Gazarra parked in the ER parking lot and helped me inside. It was time for me to play the grieving fiancee. Newspaper reporters and cameramen were already inside. They opened the back doors of the ambulance and removed the stretcher carrying Morelli. I recognized his shoes with the Bob sized chew marks on the heel. I recognized the scar on the back of his hand. But I coudn't see his face. He was completely draped by a white sheet. A large red stain was seeping through the cloth at his chest. My stomach lurched with uncertainty. He didn't move a muscle as they dropped the wheels and pushed the gurney over bumps and curbs towards the emergency room door.

I could feel my mouth open, but no words came out. Tears didn't come. As the gurney passed me I went down to my knees and as Eddie bent down to pick me up, I just screamed as loud as I could, "Joe!" Then the sobbing took over on it's own accord as I was lifted into Ranger's arms.

_To be continued…_


	48. Chapter 48 Steph's POV A New Perspective

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

Ranger carried me past the reporters, down the hall to the private waiting areas that were reserved for just such emergencies. These were the rooms where loved ones waited while the chaplain was called to deliver the worst possible news.

I once had to watch as a deranged madman attempted to execute Ranger, shooting him at point-blank range over and over, and it was Morelli who picked me up and carried me out, waiting with me in one of these rooms right here at St. Francis. I couldn't believe Rangers lived. I realized in those moments how short life is. That was the day I first said "I love you" to Morelli. And now it was Ranger who was acting as my lifeline while we waited for word about Morelli. Life is funny sometimes. But at least I had learned my lesson. Morelli knew how much I loved him. I had told him while there was still time.

Ranger held me close, rocking me gently. "Babe, you know he's going to be okay."

"He didn't move Ranger. I saw them bring him in. He wasn't moving…" The words caught in my throat.

"He wasn't supposed to be. He's doing his part, and you're doing your part. And you're both doing a very convincing job. In fact," he leaned closer, pressing his lips against my ear, "you're sort of scaring me," he whispered.

"What if the vest didn't work right?"

"Then we'll deal with it. But until we know that he's not okay, we have to believe that everything is going according to plan."

"Hey, wait a minute. How do you know about the plan?"

"Morelli called me."

"When?"

"About an hour ago. I get the feeling he was going to leave me out, but changed his mind at the last minute. I think part of him would've liked to have put me through it just for fun, but the other part of him knows that paybacks are hell, and he'd pay. Besides, he wanted to warn me not to get too excited about having a clear playing field. He was probably afraid I'd make a move before his body was cold." Ranger gave me a wicked little grin and I had to smile a little. He was just trying to make me feel better, I thought…but then again.

"After what we both went through when you were shot, I don't think he would do that to you for fun," I said seriously. "A lot has changed lately."

Ranger ran his finger over the ring on my left hand, lifting it for closer inspection. "So I heard."

"We're really going through with it this time," I told him. It seemed right that the first time I said it out loud I would say it to Ranger.

"He's a good man, Babe. He's always loved you and always will." He leaned close and whispered, "and so will I."

"Do you love me enough to let me go, Ranger?" I whispered back. It was a request more than a question.

He didn't answer right away. He seemed to be mulling it over. The corners of his mouth tipped down and I got a rueful look before he put his lips to my ear. "Yes, but just barely."

Ranger hugged me tight, and I started crying again for a whole different set of reasons.

The chaplain arrived, called by my friend Julie Wisneski, a nurse at St. Francis who I had called on to help us with our grand deception. She was supposed to be working along side Vince Roman. Roman was to request her assistance with Morelli's body upon arrival so we could keep other doctors from discovering the truth. I had expected the chaplain, but seeing him arrive in his long black gown and holding a worry-worn strand of onyx rosary beads did not make me feel any better. In fact my uneasiness was growing by the second. Where was Julie?

We waited and waited. Finally, Jean Newman, another nurse friend working at St. Francis, came in carrying a clear plastic bag, and upon seeing the contents I again burst into tears. Jean's eyes were already red and swollen from crying. She had seen us bringing Morelli in. Jean was not in on our deception. She knelt down next to me as she laid the bag carrying Morelli's personal effects in my lap. It couldn't have been more real. Jean hugged me so tight I couldn't breathe while Ranger rubbed my back reassuringly. No one said say anything. There was nothing to say. The chaplain said a few prayers over us. When he was finished, we thanked him for coming, and he took his leave along with an exhausted Jean, leaving me to continue crying pitifully in Ranger's arms.

"I can't stand this," Gazarra said, pacing back and forth. "I'm going to find Julie and make sure he's okay."

As he went to the door, Vince Roman entered, closing the door behind him.

"What in the world is going on in here?" He asked. "You'd think someone died." He looked amused rather than concerned.

"He's okay? Where is he? How is he?" I asked, jumping to my feet.

"He's fine. He said that vest packed enough punch to knock him off his feet and take the wind out of him, but he's not even bruised that much. When it went off, Melvin Pickle sucked in his breath so hard he managed to suck some of that fake blood up his nose. He claimed it stung too much for him to lay still. He was supposed to be playing dead, but he didn't do a very good job," he laughed. "He had EMS patching up a skinned his elbow, but otherwise he was fine. We had to release him and claim he was an innocent bystander, but I think it worked out. The official story is that Morelli died of multiple gunshot wounds from an unknown sniper. The witnesses didn't see anything but the blood-splatter."

I threw both arms around Vince, much to his surprise. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" I looked up to heaven. "Thank you!"

Vince took us through the hospital, through the morgue, and outside to a waiting ambulance. When the back doors were opened, I launched myself into Morelli's arms. He took one look at my tear-stained face and broke into a glorious smile.

"What's so funny?" I asked, wiping my nose on my shirt sleeve.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," he said, holding my face in his hands, refusing to look away or let me go.

"I look like hell," I said, trying to laugh.

"You're always beautiful to me."

I was sitting arm-in-arm beside Morelli in the back of the same ambulance that had brought him to the hospital. We rode with Bucky and Kenny and their EMS driver back to their fire station. From there, RangeMan provided us with transportation to a safehouse. From now on, Morelli had to lay low but I had to stay visible. I didn't want to be apart from him after what I had just been through, but that's how it had to be.

After seeing to it that Morelli had everything he needed, Ranger drove me to my apartment to feed Rex and get some clothes. Then dropped me at my parents' house. People were already bringing food. My mother had been crying, and the phone didn't stop ringing until we took it off the hook.

My father was only moderately annoyed. I ate some cookies and milk with him while we watched The Late Show together.

"I understand Morelli's got a full house," he said.

"Yep."

"So, where are you going to live when you get married?" he asked. He was probably afraid we were going to move in with him and mom, I thought. The house had been Grand Central Station ever since Grandma Mazur moved in and my sister Valerie had moved back to town. She and her new husband and three kids were always around, and I had been staying an awful lot lately, too. Dad liked it quiet. And it was anything but quiet tonight.

"We haven't decided," I told him. "We'll probably stay at my apartment for awhile. Don't worry. We won't be moving in."

"Why not?" He looked like I might have offended him. "You two can always stay here. After you're married, that is."

I almost fell out of my chair.

"Thanks," I said, not knowing what to make of that invitation. "Well, I'm going to call it a night," I told him, hoping to escape before things got any weirder.

"Good-night, honey," he said as I gave him a peck on the cheek.

Dave and Scooter called me on my cell phone at 9:30 the next morning. Arrangements had already been made for them to cover for us. Obviously _they_ had to be in on it or there would be too many questions about where the body had gone. Everyone would expect us to use Dave. What I hadn't thought of was that even a pretend funeral required real planning. I was not at all prepared when Dave asked me to come down to make final arrangements for Morelli.

"Why me?" I asked. "Can't you do it?"

"The choice of a casket is really a very personal matter, and I thought that you would want to…" he broke off. "It didn't seem appropriate to contact his mother since this really isn't…well, it would be too hard for her…we just thought you would," he said in a verbal stumble.

"It doesn't matter what kind of casket. Just use whatever you have lying around," I said.

"You must realize that all of the Burg will be there. What kind of impression would we make if we put a local hero in a pine box?"

"Well, use something appropriate. Use what Grossman had. That was nice," I said.

"We're doing this Friday morning, right?"

"Right."

"Ummm, you do realize that's tomorrow?" he said.

"Yes."

"Do you want me to order the flowers?" he asked.

Duh! Flowers. It wouldn't look like a real viewing without flowers. "Sure," I said.

"And who is paying?" he asked gently.

"Ah, uh…okay, no flowers."

"No flowers?"

"Well…it's not a real funeral, you know. And you'll get the casket back. We're just borrowing it."

He sighed. "I'll see if we have some flowers coming in that we can borrow for a few hours, but you have to promise me that nothing will happen to them," he said.

"I can't make any promises," I said. I knew from experience that if I promised nothing would happen, disaster was sure to strike.

Dave was getting exasperated with me so Scooter got on the phone. "Steph, don't worry about it. There are so many arrangements coming in for Morelli's viewing, I can take a little from this one and that one and put together a very nice casket spray for you. No charge."

"You're the best!" I told him.

"We know," he said good-naturedly. "We'll have chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies. Oh, and we contacted the newspaper last night. The obituary notice is in this morning's paper."

As we hung up, I suddenly felt a little guilty for what we were putting all our friends through. I shoved it to the back of my mind, reminding myself what kind of man we were putting away. If there was any other way, Morelli would've thought of it.

I went outside and searched the front yard for the newspaper, finally finding it under one of mom's hydrangea. I brought it inside and opened it up on the kitchen table. Mom stood looking over my shoulder as we stared down at Morelli's cop face. The newspaper had used a stock photo of Morelli in his uniform that they had used for a previous story. It was a very good picture, and he looked very distinguished, but he wasn't smiling. It just wasn't the fun-loving Joe Morelli we all knew and loved.

I had to keep reminding myself that this was all an act. It would all be over soon. I had brought a black dress to wear the next day, and true to form my mother was ironing it. I answered the phone three more times while trying to toast a bagel. Dad had decided to go to the lodge to hide out. Valerie and Albert had decided to take the kids to Point Pleasant for the day to avoid answering questions. Grandma Mazur was down at Clara's Beauty Parlor soaking up all the attention.

We had several visitors come and go, including Neeley. It had occurred to Morelli and me that there would be no stopping Grandma Mazur from making an appearance at his funeral. In the interest of peace, or rather survival, he had charged me with making sure that Grandma Mazur was not going to be armed. I could only think of one way to do that. If I hid Grandma's gun she would just find another one. I decided to borrow a page from Morelli's book; I had Neeley bring me a box of blanks. I rummaged around in Grandma's room until I found the long barrel and a half box of rounds hidden in a sweater box in the closet. I carefully replaced all of her live ammo with blanks and put the box back.

My bagel was still sticking up out of the toaster when I returned to the kitchen. It had gotten cold, so I put it back in the toaster to warm it up. I poured myself a cup of coffee while I waited. I opened the fridge to look for the cream cheese and I nearly dropped my mug. The refrigerator was already full to bursting. I had never seen so many casserole dishes in one place before in my life, and I grew up in the Burg. They were stacked precariously, one on top of another. There was sliced meat and cheese for sandwiches, Jello-salads in molds ready for serving, bags of bagels and about ten kinds of cream cheese. I opened the crisper expecting fruit and found it was side-dish city. The fruit was in a basket on the table. We had enough food to feed an army.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with all that food," my mother complained. "It just won't do to let it go to waste. When all this is over, I guess we will have to have an impromptu reception to explain to all the guests what's happened. I guess it will be good to have food set out for that."

"It would probably be a good idea," I agreed. "I'll take some over to Morelli's house. Mooch and the boys would be glad to help us eat some of this," I said, setting out several lasagna pans as Mom opened the cabinet and produced several stacks of ready to heat rolls from People's Market.

Mooch had kept the boys home from school. They had rented movies, and were lying low. I received a warm reception once they realized I had food. I opened the refrigerator only to find that it was already full.

"No need to put that away," Mooch said. He turned on the oven and slid in two of the lasagna pans.

"I guess you've had more than your share of visitors," I said.

"It's a good thing to," Mooch said in a hushed tone. "Maybe I'm just paranoid about this whole thing, but I've got a bad feeling. They know something. Lucas especially is just too quiet. He _is_ worried about something, I just don't know what it is. He doesn't trust me enough to tell me."

"Not yet, but he will," I assured him.

"In the meantime, I'm going to assume that they _are_ in danger from Stanton. I'm keeping a sharp eye out. Anyone who wants to come in here to get them is going to have to go through me." Mooch lifted his shirt and I saw that he had Morelli's spare gun tucked into his waistband.

"I hope that isn't necessary," I said, feeling more than a little alarmed.

"I'm not taking any more chances. Those boys are not leaving my sight till all of this is over."

"I keep wanting to call Morelli. I know I'm not supposed to, I just want to know that he's all right," I whispered.

"He's fine. I just don't know how we're going to pull this off on _our_ end. I feel like an idiot if I get all teary over that butt-head when he's just sit around watching television, but I swear these little old ladies act like I should be ashamed if I don't. Like I don't have a sentimental bone in my body."

"Look at it this way," I said. "If you play your cards right, maybe you'll manage to get a couple of hot dates out of it." I gave him a playful grin.

"Word has already gotten around that you're his grieving fiancé. Most of Morelli's former flames have the good sense to steer clear right now."

"Oh yeah? I don't suppose you've seen Terry Gillman?" I asked out of morbid curiosity more than anything else.

"Don't tell me you're still jealous," Mooch chided me. "You've got nothing to worry about, Steph."

Hearing that from Mooch, who knew Joe better than anyone, meant a lot to me. I knew jealousy was not going to get me very far in this new phase of our relationship.

"You didn't answer my question," I said, pressing him a little anyway.

"She stopped by last night after calling to make sure you weren't here. She brought that," he said pointing to an empty bottle of expensive looking wine nestled in the trash. "We drank a toast to the old days. She was already ahead of me when she got here." He looked like he felt sorry for her.

"Well he may not be dead, but she has definitely lost him, so let her mourn," I said, accepting the Coke Mooch was handing me. We clinked cans and downed a swig in low-key celebration of the upcoming nuptuals.

I helped him dig some clean plates out of the cabinet and stayed for lunch. I tried to talk the boys, but I couldn't get a reading from either of them. Mooch knew people. I wouldn't say he was a very good judge of character based on his life choices, but he had been around. If he said something was going on with Lucas, I believed him.

The phone was ringing off the hook here too, and I was trying to help by picking it up. The Central High School Principal called, and I handed the phone over to Mooch. Apparently the did not feel that the boys should be excused from school because Mooch's cousin had passed away. He didn't even address the fact that Mooch had already kept the boys home _before_ Morelli was supposedly killed. He did, however, make it perfectly clear that he expected them to be in school the next day regardless of the funeral schedule. Mooch argued that Morelli had been a tremendous influence in their lives and the boys needed to be allowed to say goodbye, but the principal did not see it that way. He had a job to do, and his job was to make sure those boys were present and accounted for Monday through Friday. Period. Reluctantly, Mooch agreed to drop them off and pick them up the next day. He hung the phone up in a civilized manner, and once he'd made sure that it had disconnected, picked it up and slammed it violently back down. He was definitely frustrated.

"It's just as well," I said. "You weren't really going to bring them to the funeral, were you?"

"What will it look like if I'm not there?" He said. "What would his mother say? And Grandma Bella? She'll put the eye on me."

"No one is putting the eye on your. Mrs. Morelli and Grandma Bella both know that this isn't real. In fact, Mrs. Morelli isn't even going to be there. Neither is my family. We don't want them in any danger. It'll just be the PD, RangeMan, and my team."

His shoulders slumped in a defeated attitude. "This is all so confusing."

"Tell me about it."

The doorbell rang, and Mooch answered it. It was the Chief. He had a casserole dish in his hand, which he handed to Mooch. Then he asked to speak to me alone. My heart was pounding in my chest. Was he suspicious? Had he found out? How much trouble were we going to be in? Should I lie to the Chief of Police? My stomach was suddenly tied in a knot around my lasagna.

We were left alone in the living room. He sat gingerly on the edge of Morelli's recliner, and I sat on the couch. His mood was somber and his heart seemed heavy and weary from the losses the department had sustained. He held his hat in his hands, rubbing the little golden crest with his thumb.

"Stephanie, I am so sorry," he began. "Morelli was the best. Maybe I should have seen this coming."

"No, you couldn't have," I assured him.

"Well, fortunately, Morelli understood that every day he put his life on the line." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope and handed it to me with great significance.

"What's this?" I asked. My hand was trembling as I took it from him.

"This is a copy of Morelli's beneficiary assignment. I have already given a copy to his mother this morning. The life insurance doesn't pay out until an official death certificate has been received. That will go to Mrs. Morelli, but she has assured me that his wishes will be carried out in this matter.

"I don't understand," I said.

"You and Mrs. Morelli are co-beneficiaries on Morelli's life insurance policy."

I opened the envelope and unfolded the piece of paper. I expected to find that he had just added me, and I wondered if that might have aroused the Chief's suspicions. But as I scanned the document for my name, there was only one revision date. My job dropped. I had been a 50/50 beneficiary on Morelli's life insurance policy for five years! All those fights. All those times we were apart. All those times he was angry I was working for Ranger. He never took my name off. He never gave up on me.

Once again, I burst into tears.

_To be continued..._


	49. Chapter 49 Steph's POV Joyce's Challenge

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Steph's POV**

I was having one hell of a Thursday morning. I still had my body receipt for Sanders, so I gathered what remaining courage I had and climbed into the Hummer and headed out.

When I walked into the bonds office I was virtually dog piled by Connie, Lula, Melvin, and to my great surprise, Vinnie.

"I can't believe it, I just can't believe it," Connie kept repeating.

"Oh my God, it's true. She's got a ring," Lula said, holding up my left hand. She tried to inspect it, but couldn't see it properly through the tears.

After the initial dog pile, Melvin kind of hung back. I noticed his hair was back to its usual sandy color. He gave me a questioning look. Only then did I realize that Melvin wasn't sure whether Morelli had been hurt or not. I gathered Morelli didn't give himself away even to Melvin. I gave individual hugs all the way around, and as I hugged Mel that I whispered in his ear, "Good job, everything's fine." He smiled, then realized he shouldn't be smiling and frowned again quickly.

Only Vinnie was smiling at me. He was happy that I was bringing in Sanders body receipt. So happy in fact that he was dancing around waiving it in the air and kissing it. "Well," he said "In the beginning I may have had my doubts about hiring you, but finally, FINALLY, I hear that you have a crew and it appears you have finally got the hang of this whole bounty-hunter thing." He thunked the body receipt down on Connie's desk, and wrung his hands like a greedy merchant. "Lucille has been on my case to buy her a bigger house, and I'm finally going to do it."

"It's only one skip, Vinnie," I told him, shaking my head.

"It's the beginning of a new era," he declared with a grand sweep of his arms. "I can feel it."

Lula and Connie looked towards the door, and their eyes rolled into the back of their heads. It definitely wasn't Ranger. The door opened behind me, and I heard the unmistakable click-clack clack-clack of Joyce Barnhart. Joyce is normally dressed head to toe in black leather, but today she was all in red. Red hair, red lips, red nails, and red leather.

"What's going on?" She asked Vinnie.

"Stephanie brought in Sanders," he told her, flashing a grin so wide we saw his gold tooth.

"Big hairy deal," she said. She walked to Connie's desk and slapped down a body receipt for Roseanne Kreiner."

"It is a big hairy deal," Connie said, glaring up at her. "You bring in prostitutes and their johns," she said, waiving Joyce's reciept at her. "Stephanie is bringing in middle-management dealers like Stinky Sanders."

"Stinky Sanders," she snorted. "Sanders is just another skip," Joyce said through a curled lip.

"It's a Ranger level skip!" Vinnie danced a little bit more. "Now I have Ranger back, Stephanie is out there making me money, and I even have you, Joyce, as a backup. I have it made." Vinnie was oblivious to the death-glare Joyce was giving him as he danced back into his office and shut the door. Any further celebrating Vinnie was going to do he would have to do by himself.

"Just give me my check," Joyce demanded.

"Yes, right away, Your Highness," Connie said mockingly.

Joyce turned her malice toward me next. "Well, I guess you won't be so high and mighty without your police contacts now that Morelli is worm-chow."

Connie and Lula gasped at these words, but I just stared her down. "I still have police contacts," I assured her.

"And more," Connie muttered under her breath. She ripped the check violently out of the book and shoved it at Joyce.

Joyce snatched it out of her hand and shoved it into her red leather bustier. "What else do you have for me?"

"For you, nothing."

"What's this?" Joyce asked, snatching a folder off Connie's desk."

"Alphonse Ruzick missed his court date this morning, big surprise."

"He's probably afraid to show his face in public because he knows Sanders only sprung him so he could shut him up," Lula said. "If he's smart, he's hiding somewhere."

"I'll take it," Joyce said, snatching the file away from Connie.

Vinnie's door opened again. "Hey, wait a minute. I have an awful lot of money on this guy. I say you both go after him. We'll make it a contest. Winner takes all."

"You insensitive jerk!" Connie yelled at him, coming around from behind her desk and getting his face. "Stephanie is in mourning. In case you forgot, Morelli was killed in the line of duty yesterday. The funeral is tomorrow. They were engaged to be married, in case you have been too self-absorbed to notice. She has a funeral to prepare for. She doesn't need to be running around hunting down your sorry ass skips. And if you end up being out the money, it's no one's fault but your own for bailing that piece of filth out of the only place he belongs."

"Don't worry about it," Joyce crooned. "I'm on it."

"Not so fast," I said. I snatched the file away from Joyce and stuck it in my bag. "Ruzick is mine."

"I'll take that as a challenge," Joyce said. "May the best women get her man." She turned on her heels and clickety-clacked out the front door.

"You don't have to do this right now," Connie said. "Take some time."

"Yeah," Lula agreed. "You're not really going after him today are you?"

"I don't have to go after him myself. You forget, I have people who can do that for me now."

Connie sat back down at her desk and wrote me the check for Sanders. I shoved it in my bag, and turned to go.

"You will let us know if there's anything we can do," Connie offered.

"Yeah," Lula said. "Anything."

I just nodded and took my leave. As I climbed into the Hummer, I caught sight of Joyce hanging back a couple of blocks waiting to follow me. Some things never change. Joyce followed me to the bank where I split out the money Connie had given me. She followed me to my apartment where I fed Rex, paid Mr. Kleinschmidt his share, and ran my plan past Dillon after giving him his cut. She followed me to Pino's where I explained my plan to catch Ruzick to Richie and gave him his due. She followed me to Kuntz Appliance where I paid Bernie and offered my profuse thanks for a job well done with the vest. She followed me to the fire station where I paid Kenny and Bucky. She followed me to Carl Coglin's where again I expressed my gratitude. She followed me to Sally Sweet's. And she followed me to Clara's where I paid her for services rendered and was talked into a nice manicure for the funeral. Finally I stopped by Morelli's house to give Mooch his cut. Lula and Grandma had already been paid for their performances by Sally.

The bond on Sanders had been $500,000. Recovering a skip worth half-a-million dollars was cause indeed for Vinnie to dance around, and the thought of bringing home $50,000 for one job would have made me dance too, but I knew I could never pull it off alone. Split ten ways, we each got $5,000. And to be honest, I was just happy I didn't have to roll in garbage to get it.

I couldn't go after Ruzick. He knew what I looked like now. He knew I had a hand in bringing in Stanton and Boone too, not to mention that I sort of killed Alou. If he saw me coming, I would never catch him. I might catch a bullet, but not Ruzick.

And I had another problem. Joyce was following me. She followed me back to my apartment building where I dropped off some paper trash and a free all-you-can-drink coupon from Pino's, - courtesy of Richie – to Dillon who was going to set up Ruzick as soon as we found him.

While my plan was working, I led Joyce around town. She followed me while I took Morelli's dress uniform to the funeral parlor. Then she followed my best friend, Mary Lou's house, where I wasted time until Dillon called to tell me he had struck paydirt.

When Richie called to say the package had arrived, Mary Lou gave me the keys to her mini-van. We checked the street, but didn't see Joyce. She was in stealth-mode, laying low down the street. We loaded up the kids in the Hummer and Mary Lou took them for a joyride. Joyce would never see the kids through the tinted windows. I waited a few minutes before taking off for Pino's in the mini-van, laughing to myself. I could just see Joyce's face when watched them all pile out at McDonald's without me. I had given Mary Lou a $50 to cover it, and it was worth every penny.

While I was playing reindeer games with Joyce, Dillon had been watching Ruzick's mother's house. I knew from experience that a mother will not let her child starve, and Mrs. Ruzick was a true Burg mom. She had been feeding her little chick since the day he was born and she wasn't about to stop now. She would know that if left to his own devices, little Alphonse wouldn't be getting all four of the major food groups.

Dillon followed Mrs. Ruzick when she left the house just after dark. She led him to a run-down trailer park on the outskirts of Trenton. She took a bag of groceries inside. There was a little yelling, and then she left. After she left, Dillon tore a hole in the trash bag I gave him. He approached as if he were coming from the trailer next door to put the trash out. He carelessly shook out some of the paper trash, placing the bag next to a trash can by the curb. He made sure there were coupons and clippings blowing around Ruzick's car. Then, when he was sure he wasn't being watched, he wedged the all-you-can-drink coupon just under the windshield wiper, making it appear that it could possibly have blown there. He didn't hang around, just in case Ruzick was paranoid enough to keep watching the street. Dillon had called me when he was done. That was at eight o'clock. We knew Ruzick was going to need a drink. His mother wasn't going to bring him booze. We knew he would give in to his human nature and accept fate's offer. Guys like Ruzick just weren't all that smart. That's why guys like Boone and Sanders used them and kept all the money. If he was smarter, he'd be in business for himself.

The hard part was getting Ruzick out of the trailer. Dillon, being a handy-man, had the perfect plan. He crawled under the trailer and turned off the water and gas. Turning off the electricity was too big a risk. Dillon might have gotten caught. But water and gas isn't something you usually notice right away. When he did notice, he would have to leave. It was too cold at night to be without heat, and if you know you have no water, you suddenly find you are incredibly thirsty and can't stop thinking about it.

By ten o'clock, I was sitting in a dark corner of Pino's with my hair tucked under one of Morelli's baseball caps watching Richie plying his trade. An hour later, Ruzick was swaying in his seat. Ritchie was doing his best to try to find out where Boone was hiding, but Ruzick didn't know and didn't want to know. Richie gave me the universal palms-up gesture of exasperation. I nodded and gave him a thumbs down. One last shot, and Ruzick hit the floor. I cuffed him, and Ritchie stuffed in the back of Mary Lou's mini-van. We were really getting good at this.

Ruzick's bond was $100,000. My take was $10,000. Split three ways between Dillon, Richie, and me, it came to $3,300 each. Not a bad day's pay. Mary Lou refused her cut. She was always glad to get one over on Joyce. I had to suppress the grin as I pulled up to the cop shop. I pulled around back so I could get someone to come and haul Ruzick's drunk butt out of the back of the mini-van.

Andy Diller was serving as the docket lieutenant. When he saw me following Billy Kwiatikowski, who was dragging Ruzick in for me, he dropped his pen and stood.

"Stephanie! What on earth are you doing? You're not working?"

I decided to cop an attitude with him. "What you expect me to do, Andy? I can't just sit around crying my eyes out doing nothing. I want these guys behind bars. I'm doing this for Morelli and I'm doing this for all of you. And there's nothing you can do about it, so don't give me any crap."

He looked shocked for a moment, but then he bowed his head and nodded. "Okay, yeah, I get it." He sat down and started writing out my body receipt without another word.

I ran the mini-van back to Mary Lou. I expected the Hummer to be parked on the street. I hadn't expected Ranger. _Crap!_ I forgot to tell Ranger that I had let Mary Lou borrow Hummer. As I pulled up into Mary Lou's driveway I could see her peeking out through a slit in the living-room curtain. Mary Lou was still a little bit afraid of Ranger.

I locked up and walked down the driveway towards the Porsche. The passenger door opened, and I slid in next the Ranger.

"Been busy?" He asked. He was scanning the street, not looking at me. It was hard to tell if he was mad or not.

"I just brought in Ruzick," I told him matter-of-factly.

"I heard." He cut his eyes to me. He was definitely put out.

"Has something happened?"

"Only that you had my boys scrambling to figure out why your bag was going one direction and the Hummer was going another direction. Babe, even though you have your own team, you're still a member of my team while you're driving my vehicle. I expect you to check in once in a while." That was an order.

"Sorry," I groaned. "Uh, I don't suppose your guys happened to see what happened with Joyce?" I asked hopefully.

"She turned as red as her outfit." He shot me a sideways grin. "Looked like the devil in that get-up," he mumbled, shaking his head.

"You saw her?"

"Just as I drove by. She was scaring the little kids at McDonald's when she came barreling into the playroom and demanded that Mary Lou tell her where you went. Her kids started pelting Joyce with balls from the ball pit and pretty soon all the kids joined in. I think she got her nose broken and maybe a black eye."

"No way!" I cried with delight. I know it was wrong, but I did a little victory dance in my seat. "Was there blood?"

"Hard to tell with all that red, but she was holding her nose when she ran out. Hal followed her to the ER, just to make sure she didn't get your location. She walked in under her own power, so she isn't seriously injured."

"Too bad." That got me a look. "So…I just got paid, a couple of times," I told him, trying to change the subject. "I should be able to replace my car now. I can drive Big Blue tomorrow. Do you want the Hummer back now?"

"No."

We sat in silence for a moment.

"I'm proud of you," he said softly. "You're doing all right."

I flashed him a bright smile. "Thank you."

"I've got your back tomorrow," he assured me, scanning the street again.

"You always do."

_To be continued…_


	50. Chapter 50 Steph's POV Morelli's Funeral

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

Steph's POV 

I woke once again in my own room at my parents' house. This was the big day. I had set my alarm clock for 7 a.m. I reached over and shut off the alarm. As I sat up, I saw my black dress hanging on my closet door. It was the little black dress Morelli like so much. Mom had also picked out a nice jacket I could wear over it. The jacket was new. It looked smart, with little gold buttons, and as I looked down I saw there were shoes to match.

I climbed out of bed. Dad and Grandma were arguing over the bathroom. I wouldn't be getting in there anytime soon, and I wouldn't want to, so I pulled on a robe and went downstairs for a cup of coffee. Mom was ironing dad's good dress shirt even though he wasn't going to need it. I grabbed an orange from the fruit basket.

"I hope you understand that you are responsible for making sure that your grandmother doesn't burn down the funeral parlor…again," she warned me.

"Grandma isn't going to be there," I said. That got me a look. We both knew it was impossible to keep Grandma away from the action, especially at the funeral parlor. "I'll do my very best," I promised, realizing too late that I had just invited disaster. I grit my teeth and looked away.

"Why me?" my mother asked her eyes drifting up the ceiling.

When the bathroom cleared out, I showered and started getting dressed. I put on the little black dress and put the jacket on over it. It didn't seem appropriate to have my hair down, so pinned it up in a French twist and put my makeup on…applying three coats of mascara. I dug around for some small gold earrings and stood back to look at myself in the mirror again. I looked nice – and very formal. It was an appropriate look since I would be standing next to Morelli in his dress uniform, even though he would be lying a casket. I gave an involuntary shiver.

I wasn't sure how Morelli was getting to the funeral parlor. I assumed Gazarra was bringing him, or maybe Ranger. And I certainly didn't know how Morelli thought he was going to lie still in a casket for an hour. I'd already had more than my fair share of time in a casket, and I didn't care for any more. When I died, I wanted to be cremated.

I called Mooch to see if he'd gotten the boys off to school okay. He said he had. I called all ten of my crew and made sure everyone was going to be there by 1:00 when the viewing was scheduled to begin. Of course, I wasn't running a crack team yet. Bernie had to watch the store, Richie was probably still sleeping because he didn't answer, and Buckey and Kenny were on call. Carl was in charge of watching Grandma, so I was hoping _he_ wouldn't be there. And Mary Lou promised to stay home.

Gazarra called shortly thereafter to tell me we had trouble. Big surprise. Under the Chief's orders, Murphy was in the process of loading up a portable metal detector that they were going to set up at the door to the funeral parlor. Access was going to be restricted so that there was only one way in and out – through the front door. That was going to make things a lot harder for me, I realized. If I was going to get any weapons inside, I was going to have to do it before they got that thing working!

I called Ranger to let him know about the metal detector. Then I raced to my apartment and tossed Rex a few Honey Nut Cheerios while I grabbed my gun out of the cookie jar, made sure it was loaded, and took it back to the funeral home.

Scooter met me at the door. He showed me to main viewing room where they had it all decked out with plants and flowers and a shiny top-of-the-line black casket with a large spray of flowers. I followed him through a side door that lead into the back room and there was Morelli, getting buttoned up in his suit.

We both stopped and stared at each other for a second. He looked gorgeous, and from the slow-growing smile on his face, he was thinking the same about me. Scooter had given him a trim and a shave. I couldn't remember the last time he had looked so clean. Morelli could shave at seven and still have a five o'clock shadow by noon, and he always needed a haircut. I made a mental note to send him back to Scooter instead of the barbershop next time we were going someplace formal.

I told Morelli about the metal detector and gave him my gun to hold onto for me. Morelli handed me a bulletproof vest, insisting that I wear it under the jacket. I went into the ladies room to change. It was a tight fit and did nothing to improve my bust.

I only hoped that Boone would show early. He was arrogant, and we were counting on that arrogance to bring him out to gloat at the viewing. What little information Richie had managed to get from Ruzick encouraged us to believe that Boone would make an appearance. He needed to show the community who was boss in Trenton.

The problem was, even if he did show, we couldn't touch him till he broke the law. Technically, Boone was free on bond. So, unless he actually made a direct threat against my life in public or attempted to kill me, we would have to let him walk. Morelli and Ranger and I were betting on his taking the opportunity to make a threat against me while someone else made an attempt on my life…which would be better and worse, depending on how you looked at it. We didn't have any plans for going through with the funeral itself. It wouldn't serve any purpose. If Boone didn't show between one and two o'clock, we were undone.

As one o'clock approached, Dave and Scooter helped Morelli into the casket. They fussed over the details, like trying to decide whether Morelli should have his hands folded on his chest or down at his sides. Dave insisted that it was customary to have the hands folded on the chest, because people would want to touch him. Of course touching him wouldn't be helpful, because he would be warm. Instead, Morelli insisted that he should have his hands at his sides. I knew this was because he would be holding a gun, but I didn't say so out loud.

Dillon and arrived first, followed by Mr. Kleinschmidt. Lula and Connie shuffled in, took one look at Morelli in the casket, and collapsed into tears. Whenever I see someone else cry, I end up crying too. I decided just to use that. Scooter hurried over and offered us an entire box of Kleenex, which we gratefully accepted. I went to sit down, hoping that Connie and Lula would follow and not examine Morelli too closely. Vinnie popped his head in for a second just to see the body, shook his head in disbelief, and disappeared again. I was concerned that Joyce wouldn't be too far off, but my attention was diverted.

As expected, Grandma Mazur arrived next along with several of the ladies from Clara's. Mr. Kleinschmidt did his duty by engaging them in conversation several feet from the casket. To my great surprise, Grandma was speechless, and though her eyes were dry, the sight of Morelli lying in state clearly affected her more than she liked and she had to look away.

Several of Morelli's fellow officers poked their heads in very briefly to nod to me and steal a glance at Morelli. They were preparing to play their parts in the funeral procession or were manning the door, checking purses by the metal detector. They couldn't afford to get misty while giving me their condolances. It was always "duty first" with these guys.

By one-thirty, there was a steady stream of mourners. Scooter was slowing them down by ushering everyone over to sign a guestbook, and Dave was moving them past the casket and then quickly into the sanctuary to wait. Connie and Lula refused to move on, sticking to me like glue. I was running out of excuses as to where our families were when, to my horror, they arrived en masse.

My mother was wearing her black funeral dress and my father was wearing his black suit and tie with the white polyester dress shirt that my mother had been ironing. I knew how much my father hated wearing a suit, and how much more he hated a funeral. They both looked at Morelli and I could tell they were having a harder time than they had expected. My father swallowed hard and my mother put her hand to her chest in a state of mild shock.

I jumped up out of my seat and ran to my mother. "What on earth are you doing here?" I asked.

"Can you imagine what would people say?" my mother began with a sad shake of her head. "He was almost our son-in-law. We've known him since he was a little boy, watched him grow up, and to think for one minute that we wouldn't stand beside his mother at his funeral, well, it won't be said of me, or your father."

"But, Mom," I stammered. "This isn't a real funeral. Mrs. Morelli isn't here."

"Oh yes she is," she replied, cutting her eyes to the door. I froze in stark horror. If Mrs. Morelli was here, so was Grandma Bella.

As my parents took their places besides the casket, readying themselves to receive visitors, Mrs. Morelli stepped from the foyer into the viewing room. She was wearing a black veil and little to no makeup. I had never seen her look so… human, before. When the crowd finally released her, my father stepped forward, offering her an arm to lean on, and slowly helped her towards the casket. Mrs. Morelli held her hand to her chest, but stood stoically, refusing to cry in public. She took her place with my parents, and began receiving guests immediately.

Moments later, Grandma Bella sauntered in. She was being supported by Mooch who was strangely well suited to this unenviable assignment. He gave me a half-hearted smile. I returned the smile weakly and determined that I would press on. I put my shoulders back and nodded to Bella. One second, Bella was giving me the once over. I was expecting The Eye or an announcement that she'd had a vision of my impending doom. Instead, without warning, I was pulled into an Italian bear hug and kissed profusely on both cheeks. I didn't know what that was about, but I supposed it had something to do at my swollen eyes and tear-stained face. Finally, Mooch ushered Bella past the casket so that she was also standing stoically, sandwiched between Mrs. Morelli and my mother.

Connie and Lula guided me back to my seat, and I watched and listened as my father stood at the foot of Morelli's casket, doing the honors that usually fell to man of the family. Mooch was probably the last male Morelli's capable of filling that position, but he didn't want the job. He was happy to let my father do it. And in all honesty, my dad was doing a much better job than Mooch would have done anyway. Mooch would have called Morelli a few choice names and recalled some of his less-than-glorious escapades. Dad, on the other hand, didn't fail to tell a single soul how proud he was of Joseph, reminding people how he had served his country and his community with distinction. He declared that Joe had single-handedly redeemed the Morelli name, and predicted that henceforth it would be a name that knew honor because of Joe. He even went so far as to claim him as his own son, even though we hadn't been married yet. I believe it was this more than anything else that brought the tears to Mrs. Morelli's eyes.

I was so distracted by my father's strange behavior that I failed to notice Mooch leaving to pick up the boys and, more importantly, Lionel Boone entering the room with none other than Madame Bouvier on his arm. Lionel Boone was wearing an expensive, black linen suit that had been tailored to fit him like a glove. Unlike the rest of the mourners, however, Madame Bouvier was dressed for a party. She was wearing a sparkling silver dress, and she was head to toe diamonds. A tall, diamond-studded hair comb was sticking out of her upswept hair, and she carried herself like a queen. She was all smiles as she gazed at Morelli in the coffin, and I had to fight an overwhelming desire to scratch her eyes out.

I jumped from my seat. I tried to relax, reminding myself that Boone was unarmed as he approached our parents. I marched over to stand in front of my mother as Boone and Madame Bouvier slowly approached the casket. He looked down at Morelli and did not even try to suppress the grin that spread across his face. I reached out a hand to restrain my father.

Boone looked quite satisfied as he looked into my red rimmed eyes. "Don't worry, _Madame_," he said, looking down at me. "You'll be reunited…very soon." With a sneer, he released Madame Bouvier's hand, turned on his heel and walked away.

Madame Bouvier continued smiling at me, and she had a menacing glint in her eye. We had all agreed that Boone was not going to soil his own hands with an attempt on my life. He was going to have someone do his dirty work for him. That was his style. But I had not anticipated that it would be Madame Bouvier. She appeared to be sober, although possibly she was on some other drugs, probably prescription. You just knew when you looked at her that she wasn't quite right.

I knew she didn't have a gun, but she was certainly here to do me in. My mind ran through a quick list of ways she might be planning to bring about my demise, none of them pleasant. Was she going to set me on fire? Strangle me? Poison me? I was just looking around for something to use as a weapon when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grandma Mazur whip out her long barrel. She was blocking Boone, denying him entrance to the foyer.

"No one threatens my granddaughter and gets away with it," Grandma said. She squeezed the trigger, and fire shot out the end of the gun. The blast knocked her full force into the arms of Mr. Kleinschmidt. For a second everyone stared at Boone. He appeared to have been shot at point-blank range, yet he was still standing. Grandma cocked the gun, and before she was even standing she fired again.

Pandemonium broke out in every corner of the funeral parlor. People in the sanctuary were scrambling to get out. Realizing the exit doors were all locked, a surge back through the hallway prevented any of us from leaving.

Carl Coglin was pulling Grandma away from Mr. Kleinschmidt. Instead of helping Mr. Kleinschmidt up, Coglin punched him. I hadn't figured Coglin for the jealous type. I wondered if old Mr. Kleinschmidt had been putting the moves on Grandma. I shuddered to think. Grandma fired again, this time into the air, trying to break up the fistfight that was about to begin.

Boone was still in shock, looking over his nice white dress shirt for any signs of blood. When none appeared, he made a lunge at Grandma and was wrestling the gun away from her when he was jumped by Coglin and Mr. Kleinschmidt.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Madame Bouvier smoothly withdrew the large diamond-studded comb from the back of her hair. It didn't look like a comb as she held it in her hand. It was, in fact, a jewel handled dagger with a glass blade. It was designed for carrying out an assassination in a secured area. Boone's men had probably seen the metal detector being brought in while they set up their perimeter.

I reached out quickly and grabbed the cookie tray, flinging cookies across the room as I held it up as a shield. Wanting to separate Madame Bouvier from my family as quickly as possible, I ran through the side door into the back room of the funeral parlor. At the last second, I had seen Mrs. Morelli's hand on Joe's shoulder urging him to lie still. He was trying to get his gun free from the casket. I wondered if she would go so far as to shut the lid on him.

My mind was racing, but my teeth were grinding as I tried to run in the new black shoes that were rubbing my heels raw. I was half running, half hobbling as I dashed through the back rooms towards a door that lead onto the stage of the sanctuary. I barreled through the door, jumped down from the stage. I had expected the stage to end, but Madame Bouvier had not. She launched herself face first into the center aisle below. The glass dagger broke in two as it hit the floor, and the diamond handle went skittering under the pews. I was running down the center aisle when I nearly ran into Joyce.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked, standing in my way.

Thinking quickly I said, "I'm running from my FTA!"

This got a booming laugh from Joyce. "That figures," she sneered. "Maybe I can help you out."

"She's all yours!" I gasped.

Joyce was on Madame Bouvier in a flash. They were rolling around, clawing and snarling. Joyce almost had her cuffed a couple of times, but Madame Bouvier seemed to have plenty of experience with handcuffs, and Joyce couldn't quite get a handle on her.

I ducked under the pews, crawled on my belly to retrieve the diamond handle and glass blade of the dagger, popped out next to the door at the back of the sanctuary and scurried down the hall.

I came to a screeching halt as I entered the viewing room. Boone had wrestled the gun away from Grandma Mazur. He had everyone lined up against the walls. I glanced at Morelli. He was as still as a statue. Boone technically had not committed a crime yet, and Morelli hadn't given giving himself away.

Boone took one look at me standing alone, and roared with rage. He clearly thought that I had bested Madame Bouvier. I could see his trigger finger move. He was itching to aim the gun at me and finish me for good. He seemed to have decided that Grandma Mazur had somehow completely missed him and that he was holding a loaded gun with three shots left. It's funny how the mind works. If we want to believe something desperately enough, we believe it.

Boone pulled himself together quickly. He pulled a cell phone out of his jacket pocket, hit speed dial, apparently signaling one of his men. Boone never traveled alone. He always had his own security surrounding him. We knew his men were waiting just outside, ready to take his orders.

But no one answered the call. I swallowed hard, bracing myself for anything. Boone appeared mildly alarmed, but when Ranger strolled into the room, his eyes filled with confidence and menace, his alarm dissolved into panic. My alarm dissolved completely.

When the gunfire erupted, Boone's entourage of body guards had tried desperately to get in, but they were swimming against the tide of humanity that was struggling to get out, and in the confusion Ranger's men had pick them out easily. Aside from the police who were in uniform, they were the only ones trying to get in. In no time, a dozen of Boone's men had been subdued.

Boone knew he was alone, surrounded by both cops and RangeMan. Ranger crossed his arms, and assumed a relaxed pose.

"It isn't me you have to worry about," Ranger said to Boone, cutting his eyes to me.

Boone looked my way again, noticing the sparkle of the jewel encrusted handle in my hand. His eyes grew wide as I gave him a little finger wave. "Lose something?" I asked.

Before he could respond, Murphy came running into the room. He stopped short when Boone turned the gun on him, and put his hands up. Breathlessly he announced, "The charges against Boone have been reinstated and bail revoked. The Judge has been disbarred!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Boone fired on Murphy, and then swung around, aimed for my heart and pulled the trigger. Connie screamed. Lula fainted. Grandma pitched a peace Lily at Boone and missed as Murphy attempted to tackle him. Boone jumped away, backing up right into the casket. And then to his great surprise, Morelli had him.

In one smooth, fluid motion, Morelli slid from the casket to the floor, catching Boone in a chokehold while jabbing his .45 right in Boone's kidney.

"Surprised to see me?" Morelli asked with a sneer.

Boone fired at me one last time, and then went down screaming as both our families dog piled on top of him. I stood open mouthed. Murphy had pulled his gun, pointing it at the ceiling, but not knowing what to do was looking to me for help. Grandma was belting Boone with her purse, and in the process was also hitting my father who was yelling at her to stop.

"I warned you!" Grandma bellowed. She jumped off Boone, grabbed a potted Lily, and dropped it square on Boone's head.

No one was going to top that, so one by one the Plum's and the Morelli's extricated themselves, leaving Joe struggling to support an unconscious Lionel Boone. Murphy put his gun away and stepped forward to try to cuff him while Grandma retrieved the long barrel and shoved it in her purse.

Ranger gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. He was trying not to laugh. "I'll be outside if you need me, Babe."


	51. Chapter 51 Stephanie's Door

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

Needless to say, I had a lot of explaining to do. And I had a lot of questions.

My first question was how Grandma Mazur got that gun into the viewing room in the first place. It turned out that Coglin had picked Grandma up in his hearse, and had been directed to park it in the back. Ranger had let her in. I think he just did it for a laugh.

While they were making rounds with cookies and fire extinguishers, Dave and Scooter stumbled upon Joyce and Madame Bouvier handcuffed to one of the sanctuary pews. It didn't take long for me and Murphy to put two and two together and figure out that Madame Bouvier's jeweled assassins knife matched the murder weapon for the 18th Street gang member we had on ice in the morgue. Turned out the real story was that 18th Street was stealing some of Madame Bouvier's girls from Stark Street. Apparently she didn't take kindly to competition. So by the end of the day, she was awaiting murder charges.

Mooch had just left at two o'clock to pick up Lucas and Joe from school. He had missed the excitement at the funeral home, but he didn't miss out on the excitement altogether. Mooch and Sally knew that there had been trouble at the high school, and Mooch had a gut feeling that today was the day Stanton was coming after the boys.

Both Sally and Mooch had seen Stanton before and could recognize him easily. Only Mooch recognized Dish as he drove by in a gray Saturn, which had been stolen. Stanton pulled up along with the other parents in a blue Neon. He parked and got out, approaching the boys as they were walking toward Sally's bus. Dish was acting as Stanton's pickup driver, and was keeping pace with him, driving slowly past the parked cars. As the boys neared the bus, Stanton pulled a gun, but Sally got the drop on him, stepping off the bus and coming up behind him with his Uzi.

Sally ordered Stanton to drop the gun. Stanton didn't really think Sally would shoot him, so he turned to make a run for it, but Sally popped him once in the gluteus maximus and ordered him to drop the gun again. Stanton dropped it, but more as a reflex reaction than a decision. Sally took him down as Mooch ordered the boys onto the bus.

The boys had not seen Dish, only Stanton. Mooch ordered them onto the bus a second time, but the boys dropped everything and ran instead. Mooch jumped into the driver's seat as Dish mounted the pavement and tried to run the boys down. Mooch had pushed two cars out of the way before he got the bus free. He was barreling after Dish who was now streaking down a side road in an attempt to get turned around in order to make a second pass. The boys were running through yards down a residential street. Mooch was just clearing the school's drive as he T-boned Dish in the middle of the street. Hearing the bone jarring crash and screech of tires, the boys turned in time to see Mooch open the bus doors. He stood on the platform and ordered the boys in an authoritative, platoon sergeant manner to get act on the bus immediately. To his great surprise, they complied.

Mooch, Sally, Lucas, and Joe were brought immediately to the station where the Chief was waiting for them. After sorting out what had happened, Lucas confessed to being plagued by guilt after my "death" that he had not told me all that he knew about Stanton's dealings with Boone and Sanders. Now he was ready to spill his guts and testify against them all if it would help put them away for good.

Apparently Lucas had been acting as a delivery boy between Boone and Stanton following LBJ's departure to the hereafter. While making a pick up at Boone's main house in Trenton, he had overheard a conversation between Boone and Sanders. Boone had a very important appointment with a certain Judge, and there seemed to be some disagreement about the future price of Sanders' immunity from prosecution. In the past, Sanders had paid the Judge directly, but now Boone insisted that he had to go through him and he had to pay Boone a percentage as well. On his way out, Lucas had passed a very important looking man in an expensive suit who was being patted down by Boone has bodyguards. Lucas had repeated this story to Stanton, who decided he should also benefit in this deal either through Sanders or by making a deal directly with Boone.

After hearing this story, the Chief showed Lucas a few pictures, and he did indeed pick out the Judge that had released Boone and his cohorts. It was only a short trip next door to the courthouse before the ball was rolling, and Murphy was on his way to the funeral parlor.

After what had been an exhausting day filled with anxiety, gratification, and no small amount of confusion, I caught a ride home with Mooch and the boys. To my great surprise, Lucas no longer wished me dead as he had the day I'd met him. I got a pretty decent reception from Joe too, and they were both agreeing wholeheartedly to testify in the upcoming weeks.

They had also been present as I got the ball rolling on establishing Morelli House by signing an intent to donate the house to the city for use as a foster care facility under the direction of Mooch Morelli. It turned out that three of Grandma Mazur's friends from the beauty parlor were closely related to members of the committee that approves the applications for foster care providers, and it was quickly determined that, under the circumstances, Mooch Morelli had proven himself capable of handling any situation that might arise. I shuddered to think what that might entail in the future, but I agreed to sign a letter of recommendation myself.

With Boone, Bouvier, Ruzick, Dish, and Stanton all in the lock-up, Stephanie went home to her own apartment. I had showered, put on some sweats, watched the evening news (in which I was prominently featured), and I would've had a beer with Mooch on the back porch except we weren't allowed to have beer in the house anymore, so I had to settle for a Coke.

Bob was bounding around in the backyard chasing his own shadow and barking at it until Mooch got up and turned off the porch light. Mooch was ready to turn in and call it a day, but I still had one more item on my agenda.

Frank picked me up at eleven in his cab and dropped me off at Stephanie's apartment building. I had a duffel bag slung over my shoulder as I quietly crept up the stairs to the second floor. I cautiously tried the doorknob to Stephanie's apartment. It was locked. I quietly inserted my key. I turned the lock, turned the doorknob, and was then stopped by the chain.

I quietly closed the door and locked it. I took out a mini Mag Light and carefully examined frame of the fire door. I found what I was looking for. I took my bag to the end of the hall. Crouched in a dark corner, half-hidden by a plastic Ficus tree, I unzipped my duffel bag and removed the two plastic caps from the ends of a car battery that I just happened to have lying around in my garage. I'd hooked it up to the charger when I got home, so it was all juiced up and ready to go.

I wrapped a stripped piece of black, insulated copper wire around one terminal and then ran the wire along floor by the wall all the way down the hall to Stephanie's door, snipping and stripping the end and securing it to the bottom front corner of the door with a thick piece of black electrical tape. I stripped the end off the wire that was left on the roll and wrapped it liberally around a tri-hook from an old fishing lure. I snagged the lure securely into the carpet about three inches from the door. Only one little barb was sticking up out of the carpet. I carefully let out wire as I crawled back to the corner where I cut, stripped, and secured the other end of the wire to the remaining battery terminal. Then I waited.

I was employing all of my well-honed surveillance techniques in order to stay awake. I had recounted every take down I had ever made in an attempt to stay awake on the residual adrenaline rush. I'd tried to get worked up about all those felons the courts had let go, but my eyelids were too heavy. I was up to trying to scare myself into believing the building might be haunted when, just after 2:30 a.m., I heard a faint sound in the stairwell. Now my heart was pounding. I didn't believe for a second that it was a ghost that had suddenly appeared as a dark shadow in the hallway. I knew it was Ranger.

I was dead still – for the second time that day – while I watched and listened. He approached Stephanie's door. He stopped and listened and I wondered if he sensed me watching him. I held my breath. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and I heard a faint "pop-pop", just like I had heard on the bug. He put his hand on the doorknob and pulled gently towards himself…the opposite way it should open! The doorframe itself was rigged as an electronic door containing the inner door, which opened into the apartment.

So, this was how Ranger was able to enter Stephanie's apartment whenever he wanted, appearing even to have bypassed the security chain. Stephanie had once said that she could hear the chain swing free, but I couldn't figure how he'd done it so quickly. He hadn't. Because he had entered so quickly, she had assumed the sound was the chain opening. She hadn't actually seen the chain hanging free. What she had actually heard was the chain bouncing against the door as he opened and closed it. When I rushed in to catch him in her apartment, Tank had probably seen me, and he made it to the hall before I reached the door. He had probably hidden from me behind this same Ficus!

I was crouched, ready, waiting. Ranger stepped to the side, opening the door wider, preparing to slip inside when the bottom of the steel door came in contact with the copper wire wrapped fishing lure. ZZZZZZZZAAAP!

There was a momentary spark from the point of contact and I could see the look on Ranger's face. I'd shocked him good. It was priceless. He let go of the door with a lightning reflex, instinctively pulled his gun and whirled around, spotting me. He couldn't tell it was me in the dark, and for a second I realized what a stupid idea this was. He was probably going to shoot me first and ask questions later. I guessed it was a good thing I had been able to attend my own funeral, because it was the only one I was going to get. They would never find my body.

Good sense would dictate that I identify myself. But at that moment, I did the only human thing I could do. I burst out laughing. I guess, when it all came down to it, if Ranger was going to shoot me anyway, I was going to have the last laugh.

While I was waiting for Ranger to decide whether or not to shoot me, I pulled the wire off one terminal so that Stephanie wasn't going to take 12 volts if she heard us and suddenly walked through the door.

Ranger approached, gun drawn and threw a light on me. "Morelli." As if it could be anyone else.

"Ranger," I said, still chuckling.

I started pulling the wires back in, wrapping them in little bundles around my fingers and sticking them back in the duffel bag along with the battery. The fishing lure was still stuck in the carpet. Ranger toed it with his boot, then bent over and tore it loose from the carpet. He inspected it with his light. "Nice," he said sarcastically. He walked over and handed me the lure. I wrapped it in electrical tape and tossed it in the bag.

"So, that's how you've been doing it all this time, huh? The _Man of Mystery_ was cheating."

"I like to think of it as being creative."

"I like to think of it as breaking and entering," I said in my cop voice. "I, on the other hand, have been given a key," I said, brandishing the golden object so that he could clearly see it.

"So I've heard."

"You're through. I'm marrying her."

"When?"

"Tomorrow." I couldn't believe I had just said that.

"What time?"

"Two o'clock." Where was this coming from?

"Where?"

Ranger reached out to shut the apartment door, but the door wouldn't stay shut. He pulled out the remote and pushed the button but nothing happened. The battery had shorted out the circuitry in the door. Ranger ground his teeth but didn't curse out loud. He put the remote back in his pocket.

"Where?" he asked again.

I pulled a large plastic syringe of "instant auto weld" out of the duffel bag. I sliced off the ends of the tube with my pocket knife. As I slowly depressed the plunger two types of gel that had been stored in separate compartments inside the tube were allowed to mix. I applied this chemical mixture like a caulk around the thin crack in the doorframe. Ranger held it shut while I welded it into place.

"Well?" he pressed.

Where? Where? My mind was a blank. Our parents would have to be there. I didn't have time to rent a hall, hire a band, have it catered, and I knew she'd have time to back out if I didn't surprise her. Where? Then it all clicked.

"The Big D Marina." I gathered up the duffel bag and we both turned to go.

"See you there."

_To be continued..._


	52. Chapter 52 A Super Hero Hideout

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

What Stephanie didn't know was that even though she and Ranger had dropped me off at a safe house, I didn't stay there long. I had made some calls to New York about the pre-auction items that Ranger had circled on the flyer. Ranger was an expert in many things, including real estate and cars. After making my initial inquiries with the auction house, I called Ranger's insurance agent. I had figured it would be a good deal, but I just couldn't believe how good.

The first item up for bid - and believe me, at $65,000, the price was right - was a former flat-deck car ferry upon which had been built a 600 ft.² single bedroom house. It was a cute little bungalow with solid frame construction, vinyl siding, and double pane glass. There was space for parking for two vehicles on the front end. The ramp was electric and easy to retract from the dock. It also had a down position for launching and retrieving small watercraft. It had been built for the winter months with R-27 grade insulation, and it could be heated with either a propane or coal in addition to the small bank of solar panels on the roof. The Big D. Marina was only charging me $150 a month to tie up plus electricity, which was metered. There were no lawns to mow, no noisy neighbors, no parking hassles, the sunsets would be beautiful while we grilled on the deck, and to top it all off, it was considered a boat and not real estate, so property taxes were very reasonable. What I liked most of all was that we could be underway in a matter of minutes in case of an emergency. And I figured that if it caught fire or blew up, at least it was already on the water. 

The second item on the pre-auction listing was a custom car that I would never have dreamed up. If I were Ranger, I would've snagged it for myself. Apparently some drug runners had purchased what appeared to be a black 2002 Camaro convertible, but upon closer inspection it was obvious that it wasn't a Camaro at all. The body was actually made of lightweight fiberglass that had been virtually waterproofed, inside and out, then fitted with a turbo-charged 2.5 liter, 300 horsepower Subaru engine. It had the four-speed, manual transmission and suspension from a Corvette. It could do 125 mph on land, and, with the flip of a switch, it could hit the water and still do 40 mph with a Berkeley jet drive. These guys had literally been running a ship-to-shore operation before they got busted. Apparently they hadn't figured on the Coast Guard being able to do more than 40 mph. 

I was seriously tempted. Then the auction house rep started telling me that, shortly after the pre-auction flyer was printed, NYPD located the storage locker these guys had been using to hide their stash and found a matching yellow hydro-Jeep. I was sold. 

Because this was a pre-auction for law enforcement only, there were very few bidders. Probably because the actual market value on these cars was somewhat questionable, there was no warranty, the title-work was listed as "in process" on the sheet, and the fact that they were difficult to classify for insurance purposes, there were no other takers. I picked them up for the minimum: $5,000 each. I'd always had my suspicions that Ranger was picking his cars up at auction; I just didn't know where. I supposed Joe Juniak probably had something to do with his ability to purchase from places like this despite the fact that he wasn't technically law enforcement.

I knew I would owe Ranger for this one, but I couldn't walk away from an opportunity like this. It was too perfect. Stephanie and I didn't need a big place; we just needed a place to sleep and regroup. And Wonder Woman would finally have a car as special as she was. I wanted to give her things Ranger never could, and I was trying, but I knew Frank was right. It wasn't about the stuff…it was about the life we were going to be living together. If she blew up the car, I was just going to have to let it go. Fortunately, Ranger's insurance agent wasn't the least fazed by Stephanie's record of demolition or the fact that I needed to insure a vehicle for land and sea. I couldn't imagine trying to explain all this to an insurance agent from the Burg.

I'd already had the boat transferred from its resting place at the 79th Street Boat Basin on the Hudson to Big D's Marina on the Delaware. I had printed out the tide tables and had a copy in my back pocket. I checked, and the tide would just be preparing to go out at 2:00, which was perfect. The view of the boat would be at it's best and hopefully the river would be calm.

So here it was, three o'clock in the morning, and instead of going to sleep I was planning a wedding. I was elated, exhausted, and confused. I had no idea where to begin. Who was up at three o'clock in the morning on a Friday night that could help me plan a wedding? It sounded like a stupid question, and I couldn't believe I had an answer. Sally Sweet. He was probably just getting home about now. Since Frank had dropped me off and I didn't have a car, I borrowed the Hummer. It only seemed fair since Stephanie had stolen my SUV a few times before she blew it up. 

I was sitting in hallway of Sally's apartment building waiting for him when he arrived home. It was shortly before four o'clock in the morning. I explained the situation, and he assured me that Stephanie would be there with bells on. I really hope that was a figure of speech, but I was afraid to ask. I made sure he wouldn't tell her parents. I wanted to do this right.

I knew it wasn't romantic. I knew this wasn't the way wedding preparations were supposed to be done. But I'm a guy. I don't sweat the details as long as I'm getting the things done that need to be done. So, at 4:30 in the morning I was picking out wedding invitations, plastic-ware, cake decorations - not to mention the wedding cake - at Wal-Mart. A very nice little old lady in aisle four helped me out with a nice recipe for making punch out of sherbet and Sprite, which reminded me that I needed to buy a plastic punch bowl, which I finally found in aisle 23. By the time I got through the check-out it was six o'clock, and I had a deeper understanding of why brides run away. And I hadn't even been worried about the dress.

I drove to the houseboat. I put the cake in the fridge and the sherbet in the freezer, relieved to find the refrigerator was still working properly. I had done a fair amount of housecleaning while I was playing "dead". I had purchased new furniture by shopping online with a local outlet store. The subsequent delivery had included an outstanding recliner for sleeping in. That was for me. There was an overstuffed couch for Stephanie. I also bought a little round table for two for the kitchen and a new executive desk with two computer chairs. I figured the area towards the front door would be our office space unless or until we opened a store-front. We would have to share the one desk. There wasn't room for two. Stephanie had a laptop, so I figured my computer would go on the desk, but for now it was still at my house. 

There was one small bedroom connected to the bathroom and front rooms. The bathroom only had a shower, and it was pretty small but the water pressure from the pump was excellent. I'd sprung for the tank-less hot water heater, partly because I really wanted one and partly because Stephanie was always in the shower and I knew it would save me a lot of money in the long run. 

I'd had a terrible time deciding between a king size bed and the queen size bed. After I'd measured the room a second time, I realized that my decision was actually going to have to be between the queen and the full-size bed. I considered how much sleep I would lose in a full size bed with Stephanie and Bob, and chose instead to go with the queen with drawers underneath, deciding it was best in case the entire room took a tumble while we had to make a fast get-away. I made a mental note to have everything nailed down…soon.

Whoever had decorated last had kind of a mermaid theme going on. There was a big cast-iron mermaid sculpture mounted on the wall above the bed. I kind of liked it. Everything was done in various shades of blue and had a nautical theme, so the furniture I ordered was all navy blue. If Stephanie didn't like it, she could change it. But I didn't figure she'd care. It was a damn sight better than that '70's orange, brown, gold, and avocado that dominated her apartment building.

The sun was shining as I drove the Hummer back to Stephanie's apartment. Frank was always up at seven o'clock, so I gave him a call and asked him to pick me up. He was waiting for me when I got there. We went to Denny's for breakfast - sausage, eggs, and coffee. 

Frank and I hadn't talked about things he had said at my funeral. He had filled a place in my gut that had been empty all my life. Men just don't say those kind of things to each other. I knew he knew, and that's all that mattered.

"So," Frank said. "Whatcha got on your mind?" He poured sugar and creamer in his coffee, not looking at me.

"Well Frank, I was wondering if you'd mind if I married your daughter this afternoon?" 

Frank's hand froze in mid-stir. He cut his eyes to me. "Today?"

"At two o'clock this afternoon. But only if I have your blessing, and if you and mom will attend."

"So you're not running off to elope, eh?" He was trying to sound disappointed, but I knew he was joking.

"Of course not."

"You know you have my blessing, and her mother's." He finished stirring his coffee and was thoughtful for a moment. "Stephanie doesn't know, does she?"

"I just can't see Stephanie surviving six months of wedding preparations."

"You've got that right. I never want to witness hysterics like that again." We both smiled, remembering Steph's sister, Valerie, and the pre-wedding jitters that nearly undid the entire family when she was preparing to marry Albert Kloughn.

"I hope our mothers will forgive me."

"Are you kidding? If they had any sense they'd be thrilled to have it over and done with."

"I'm just afraid they're not going to see it that way. But…well, I just want to marry her as soon as possible."

Frank had been engrossed in his plate, but now he cut his eyes to me again. "Why's that?"

A bark of laughter escaped from me. "Don't worry, Frank. It's nothing like that." Relief washed over Frank's face. "I just need her with me in order to live, that's all."

"Well, if that's all…" Frank smiled at me, "I guess we'd better do this thing."

"I guess so," I said, grinning back at him. 

"When and where?"

This time, I was ready with an answer.

I thought I would have butterflies in my stomach. I even bought an extra Maalox at the store just in case. But, instead of feeling nervous, I realized I was actually excited. I was looking forward to this! It was going to be one of the best moments of my life. I couldn't wait to hear Stephanie say, "I do".


	53. Chapter 53 The Wedding

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), and Patti Basatti (County Clerk), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

By 8 a.m., I was back at the office, printing the invitations on the printer in my office. I was going to have to have these delivered with very short notice, not that that was going to be a problem in the Burg. My problem with deciding who to entrust with this task without offending anyone else. Traditionally, the bride's mother helps the bride with planning the wedding. I considered asking Mrs. Plum, but there was something else they needed from her that was more important.

When I finished with the invitations, I packed up my office – again – and went down the hall to give my written resignation to the Chief. I had done my part. Bell could finish up any residual paperwork that I had left behind.

At nine o'clock, I walked into my mother's house and dropped the bomb. After some initial crying, she agreed to help me. I managed to escape without seeing Grandma Bella.

Even though it was Saturday, and even though I had officially resigned from the police force, I had an emergency court session with the Chief Judge at 10 a.m. Mooch was there to meet me. Varela and three of his gang had been transferred to federal prison on no-contest pleas. There was some kind of mix-up on the paperwork. They were not supposed to be in general population. Within a matter of hours, they were picked off one by one. Varela was last. I guess Ranger's always right. They were murdered by MS-13 gang members, stabbed 13 times.

In light of these developments, the Chief Judge decided to hold the emergency session transferring custody of Lino Pavia to Mooch Morelli at Morelli House on a Saturday in an attempt to avoid any publicity in the media. Pavia had given written and video testimony against Sanders and Boone, but we could not make him testify against Varela. Now we didn't need to.

Because all three of the boys in Mooch's custody were considered to be in danger, the judge had made arrangements for all three to attend a private art school, funding provided by charities to help inner-city kids, and he ordered Mooch to take them personally. Mooch flashed me a look of deepest gratitude. I shook my head, indicating that I had not played any role in this decision. He didn't look like he was buying it.

Mooch escorted Lino out of the courtroom, but I hung around for a few minutes hoping to have a few words with the judge. I explained my desperate need for a marriage license, and even though it was a Saturday, he called the County Clerk at home. He handed me the phone, and she agreed to meet me within the hour. I guess I was still famous for being back from the dead.

At 11:30 a.m., I walked into Clara's Beauty Parlor. Melvin Pickle was currently working as a photographer at the mall. Sally's idea was to have Connie and Lula pretend to assist Melvin with a project photo shoot to showcase his talents. Melvin was hoping to start his own photography studio, and Stephanie knew that this. The story was that Connie, Lula, and Stephanie would model some wedding gowns down at the dock at two o'clock. Connie and Lula were in on it. They twisted her arm, reminding her that she really owed Melvin big for the Stinky Sanders take down. Clara had agreed to make them up free of charge in exchange for some free advertising when Melvin madeit big.

So here they were, having their hair and nails done, surrounded by the usual Burg gossips. Unusually, Mrs. Plum and the County Clerk, Patti Basatti, had joined them. I grinned at Steph's mom, and she waved at me, giving me the "go" signal. Frank and I had arranged some of this over breakfast, and he'd run home to fill in the misses.

I sat and watched, answering questions about recent criminal activity in the Burg, biding my time until the girls had donned their dresses. Connie was wearing an off-white, knee-length number, and Lula was wearing the palest blue micro-mini with a glittery, matching halter-top, set off by her light blue eye shadow and nails. Stephanie emerged last wearing a flowing white wedding gown, and she was beautiful. Even though I wasn't taken completely by surprise, it wasn't hard to play the part.

I stood up and walk towards her, a man smitten. I took her hand in mine and put it to my heart.

"You have to marry me soon," I said.

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Does this mean you want to pick a day?"

"Pick a day? We don't even have a marriage license," I said.

Right on cue, Patti jumped up. "I can help you with that," she offered.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"Of course," she said, rummaging around in her bag. She pulled out a marriage license form and a pen, and placed them on the glass counter by the door. "Just fill these out, and I'll take care of it on Monday."

"What do you say?" I asked Stephanie, not really waiting for an answer. I took the pen and began filling out the form.

"Don't you need to make copies of our identification, birth certificates, and things like that?" Stephanie asked. "I'm sure that when I married Dickie it was quite a process."

"What do you need?" Mrs. Plum asked. She got up and came forward with her purse. "I always carry the girls' birth certificates and things in case of emergencies."

Stephanie's mouth was hanging open, but they didn't give her time to react.

"I need a driver's license, social security card, and birth certificate from each of them, and at least one witness that knows both parties." The room erupted with witnesses offering their signatures. "I can look up Stephanie's divorce decree at the office. And I need $28 cash. Seventy-two hours after I file the paperwork, the marriage license will be mailed to the address you indicate on the form."

"Well," Mrs. Plum beamed. "That's wonderful!" She dug around in her purse, and handed over Stephanie's birth certificate.

"Feel free to use my photocopier," Clara chimed in.

"You may carry my birth certificate around, but I doubt that Joe has his," Stephanie said. I could swear she was breaking out in a sweat as she stood there.

"Sure I do," I said. "Standard procedure."

I pulled out my drivers license, Social Security card, and birth certificate along with two 20's. Clara was kind enough to make change for us. I had filled out my part and Stephanie's part, leaving her only needing to sign the form. Her hand was trembling as she handed over her driver's license and Social Security card. The trembling increased she took the pen and attempted to sign her name. But she did it.

"Seventy-two hours, huh?" she asked Patti.

"Yes. Then you can get married anytime you like, within six months that is."

"Six months?" Stephanie repeated.

"That gives us plenty of time," her mother said, patting her hand. Mrs. Morelli gave me a sly smile, and I could see that she was pleased she wasn't going to have to wait that long.

I had set the alarm on my phone to ring at noon. When it did, I pretended to answer my phone, taking an important call. I excused myself, and walked Patti out, thanking her for taking time out of her Saturday, and inviting her to the wedding. She assured me that I could pick up the license after 12:30.

Nothing about this wedding was being done the way my mother or Stephanie's mother would have had it done. Grandma Bella would have a long list of complaints. She thought all Italian weddings should be done the old-fashioned way. The Italian tradition included the groom standing at the church waiting for the bride holding a bouquet as a present for her. I had always thought that was somewhat romantic, so I went to the florist and, explaining the situation, had a traditional Italian bouquet with a mix of flowers, heavy on the red roses.

At 12:30, I picked up the marriage license from City Hall, where I also managed to rent some tables and chairs to set up on the dock. I called Mooch to meet me with his truck, but he said he was too busy and he couldn't make it. I was flabbergasted. The wedding was in an hour and a half. I insisted, but Mooch held his ground. I was cursing him as I dialed Sally.

I explained the problem, and Sally agreed to come with the bus to help me load up. Apparently Stephanie had driven the Hummer to the beauty parlor, so Sally wasn't going to be playing chauffeur after all.

Sally and I pulled up to the dock at one o'clock, and there was Mooch, Lucas, Joe, and Lino, packing up paint cans and stencils into the back of Mooch's truck.

"Where have you been?" I asked him. "And why aren't you dressed?"

"What you mean? I am dressed," Mooch said, being smart.

"Not for a wedding, you aren't."

"Well, neither are you, and it's _your_ wedding," he said laughing.

He was right. "Fine! I don't care what you're wearing as long as you're here," I said. "I'm going in to change, while you guys unload those tables and chairs. Put them on the dock."

I headed down the dock and onto the boat, stopping short when I saw the bay window on the front of the house. It had been painted, professionally I might add, like a downtown storefront. The edges of the window had been framed with a 3-D effect using several shades of gray, black, and white. In the center of the window, bold white letters with outline appeared to pop out of the window, announcing:

* * *

**Morelli & Morelli**

**Detective Agency**

_Surveillance_

_Missing_ Persons

_Domestic/Child Custody_

_Criminal Investigations_

_Heir/Witness Locates_

_Risk Management_

_Background Checks_

_Consulting _

* * *

I was stunned. There was no doubt about it. Lino's style was apparent, but clearly Joe and Lucas had helped. The letters were so crisp and clean, all in perfect proportion. I couldn't believe it. I hadn't chosen the name _Morelli & Morelli_, but I liked it.

I went inside, took a very quick shower, and dress in my best suit. Fifteen minutes later, I was helping tape down the plastic tablecloths when my mother and Grandma Bella arrived. They were bearing gifts, so I pointed out the gift table. My mother was staring out the houseboat, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, apparently taking in the advertising on the front window. She turned on her heels and marched back to the car, and I chased after her.

"Mom!" I called after her. "What's wrong?"

"I had no idea you were planning to live on a boat, Joseph," she said. "If I had known… well, I wouldn't have brought the Morelli family china. I had been planning to hand this down to you and Stephanie, but if you're going to be living on that thing, I think I'll just hang onto it for you until you are better settled."

"Oh," I said, breathing a sigh of relief.

Mom opened the trunk of her car, gently placing the box she was carrying back into a nest of blankets that were acting as padding. Instead, she took out a smaller, cigar shaped box.

"What's that?" I asked.

"I guess you could use the silver, instead." She turned and thrust the box towards me.

I smiled wide. "Stephanie and I would be honored." I offered her my arm and walked her back down the deck to the tables.

Soon we had thecake and punch ready to go, and I was standing at the end of the dock carrying a bouquet of flowers, directing the guests down the dock to the houseboat where my mother was receiving them.

Grandma Bella had forced a piece of iron into my coat pocket for luck. She chided me for not marrying on a Sunday, the luckiest day, and as I looked back up the dock, I caught her laying a broom across the way. I groaned, knowing what she was up to. Traditionally the bride walked to the church, and along the way tests were placed in her path to see what kind of a wife she would be. If she picked up the broom and put it away, she would be a good housekeeper. If the child were crying, and she quieted the child, she would be a good mother. If a beggar crossed her path, and she gave money to him, she had a good heart. This was exactly what I had been afraid of. I could see excitement in Grandma Bella's eyes as Valerie and Albert approached with baby Lisa in tow.

I approached grandma Bella, stooping to pick up the broom. "Take it back inside," I ordered.

"Joseph, you have not allowed us to follow tradition in this. She probably didn't even wear green last night…"

"Stephanie is not going to understand the meanings of these tests, and regardless of whether she passes or fails, she is going to be my wife. And you will love her as you love me, because I've asked you to." I pushed the broom back into her hands. "No more visions, no giving her the eye, and no more superstitious nonsense." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the piece of iron. "Our marriage is not going to be a success or a failure because someone wore the wrong color last night before bed or because I saw the bride before the wedding or because she has her engagement ring on today or because I had a piece of iron in my pocket."

"You have no appreciation for tradition, Joseph." She said, snatching the lump of iron out of my hand and thrusting it back into my jacket pocket.

"I will not tolerate anything being said to Stephanie today that might intimidate her or her cause her to feel in any way that this marriage is a disappointment to my family. Can I be any more clear?"

Both Grandma Bella and my mother stood with jaws agape, staring at me.

"I was not raised to take marriage lightly," I said to my mother. "When these rings are finally on our fingers, and we become one in the eyes of God, then Stephanie has to come first in my life from that moment on. That is what I am promising. Do you want me to be any less of a man than that?"

Slowly, very slowly, my mother approached me, arms outstretched. She took my face in her hands, and then pulled me down to her so she could kiss my forehead. Then she slowly kissed each cheek before letting me go. "I'm losing my son," she whispered.

"Yes," I whispered back.

She nodded, letting me slip free. I pulled her into a hug and kissed her hair. "I will always love you. You're my mother. But it has to be this way. Don't drive Stephanie away, because if you do, I'll have to go with her."

My mother pulled back and nodded slowly. She turned her eyes on Grandma Bella. "He's made up his mind, and we'll respect his decision," she decreed.

"It's about time," Grandma said with a nod of approval. I hadn't expected that. Then, holding her head high and walking back to the house with my mother.

Frank and Mother Plum arrived moments later. I walked down to the house with them, and showed them inside. Mrs. Plum was as shocked at the writing on the front window as my mother had been, but when I explained that I hoped Stephanie and I would be working together from now on, she seemed relieved. I knew shedidn't like Stephanie working for Vinnie. She would rest easier knowing I was with Stephanie and that we were going _not_ to be hunting down fugitives, at least not most of the time.

The guests were arriving now, everyone was ooh-ign and ahh-ing over the house and strange "super cars". My mother was ushering everyone inside. Vinnie and his wife arrived, as did Dickie. I most certainly did not invite Dickie, but there seemed little I can do about it now. I gave him a warning look, but he just smiled his idiotic smile at me.

I breathed a sigh of relief as Joe Juniak arrived in a stretch limo. It's not everyone that gets married by the Governor of New Jersey. Juniak was not only the former police chief, but also the former mayor of Trenton. As such, the current mayor had given him permission to marry us.

Last but not least, Ranger and Tank showed up. It was already two o'clock. Connie, Lula, and Sally already present and accounted for, and they had assured me that Stephanie was right behind them. Tank went inside, but Ranger waited on the dock with me and Mooch. Melvin had set up his camera and was taking a few practice shots of Connie and Lula. There was just a slight breeze, the sky was blue and clear, and the temperature was a perfect 70°.

The minutes ticked by, but still, there was no Stephanie. Traditionally the groom holding the flowers at the church is being teased by his best friends, tortured to think the bride might not show up. Mooch knew this, but I wasn't sure about Ranger. Regardless, it was one of the most irritating traditions I had ever endured.

"Maybe she got lost," Mooch said, poking me in the rib with his elbow.

"Maybe she got cold feet," Ranger mused. "You may have scared her to death with that stunt you pulled to get the license."

"Maybe she's on to you," Mooch said. "Maybe she recognized the cars and took off."

I paced back and forth on the end of the dock as the minutes ticked away. Where could she be?

By 2:20, I was nearly frantic. Had some lunatic come after her? Had she been in a car wreck? Had she seen me standing here in a tuxedo waiting for her and suddenly driven out of state? I gave in to my paranoia and ran to Big Blue, popped the trunk, and checked the GPS. She was about 3 miles away and the signal was stationary.

I went down to the house and had Sally call her. She apparently picked up. Sally listened to her reply, asked her to hurry up because Melvin was waiting for her. He disconnected, and gave me a sad shake of his head. "She says she ran out of gas. Apparently, it's taking her quite a while to get the gas can refilled because everyone wants to know where the bride is off to and why she's carrying a gas can. She can't figure out how she ran out of gas. She said she had plenty of gas last night. I guess that Hummer just _sucks_ gas, huh?" He raised an eyebrow at me. "I don't suppose you filled the Hummer before returning it to her apartment building this morning?"

I slapped the palm of my hand against my forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was my fault she was late to her own wedding! "No, I don't suppose I did," I groaned.

"You were in such a big hurry to get her here that you left her stranded in her wedding gown!" he laughed. "That's classic."

"Yeah, that'll be one to tell the kids about," Ranger chuckled with sarcasm.

I went back out to the dock to wait, alone. Melvin continued taking pictures of Lula and Connie, and within minutes, Stephanie pulled up. She noticed the cars, and looked around, but she didn't see anyone else, so she got out and walked down to the dock. She smiled when she saw me holding theflowers. I opened my arms and she ran to me, dropping her bag on the dock. I could hear Melvin's camera clicking away in the background. I held her tight and whispered in her ear that I loved her.

She stepped back, and took the flowers from me, and I was rewarded with one of the most beautiful smiles I've ever seen. She seemed to think that I was going to join her in the photo shoot. She had seen me in my suit before, and I savored the last few moments before I had to tip my hand.

"Come here, beautiful," I said, taking her by the hand and walkingher slwolydown the dock past Melvin and Connie and Lula. She looked questioningly at me, but I just smiled and gave her hand a reassuring little squeeze as we approached the houseboat. I stopped at the end of the dock and pointed to the window. "So, what do you think?"

Her eyes grew wide as she read the writing on the window. Then she took in the houseboat, then the cars, and slowly she turned to look at me. I got down on my knee, and took both of her hands in mine. "Stephanie Plum, will you marry me? Right now?"

I could feel her hands shaking, so I squeezed them just a little tighter. "What? Marry you right now? How? There's no one to marry us, and we don't have our license yet."

"I have the license in my pocket. Patti rushed it for me this afternoon. I'm totally serious, Stephanie. Please, say you'll marry me, right here, right now."

She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes. Time stood still as I waited. Finally, when I had braced myself for the worst, a tear ran down her cheek, and she breathed, "yes."

When the smile broke across my face, the door of the houseboat burst open, and we were suddenly surrounded by a cheering throng. We were lost in the confusion of congratulations and well wishes as people slowly filtered passed us to find seats at the tables. Joe Juniak patted me heartily on the back andtook his place at the end of the dock where Melvin had his camera set up and was snapping pictures.

The ceremony was about to begin when an angry voice rang out from the group. All heads turned towards the table where Dickie and Joyce were sitting with Vinnie and Shorty O. Accusations were flying, and it quickly became apparent that Dickie, as Shorty's lawyer, had billed Shorty for five hours that he claimed he spent on Shorty's business last Friday night. However, it seemed that Joyce had let it slip that Dickie had been with her last Friday night. It didn't take much provocation before guns were drawn. Shorty drew first, then Joyce drew on Shorty. Dickie had ducked under the table, but Vinnie, being the weasel that he is, took off at a run, leaving his wife behind. In his haste, he tripped over Stephanie's purse, which was lying forgotten on the edge of the dock. He took a tumble with the strapof the purse wrapped around his ankle. As the first shot rang out, he half-jumped, half-fell into the water, taking Steph's bag with him.

"Vinnie! My phone!" Stephanie screamed. It was all I could do to hold her back.

All the cops in attendance pulled their weapons and trained them on Shorty and Joyce. Dickey let out a shrill squeal and took off running up the dock.

"He's ruining our wedding!" Stephanie yelled, tearing free of my grip. I knew he wasn't going to get away with it. She ran to the gift table and grabbed the first thing with a handle she came to. Before I could stop her, she had hurled it at Dickie's head, clocking him hard. He went down, and next thing we knew she was on him, remembering too late that she was wearing a wedding dress and had no cuffs. He was screaming that she was a psycho, and she was hitting him in the head with what appeared to be a frying pan wrapped in gold paper with little silver bells on it. As they rolled around, nails sticking up from the wooden planks were snagging her dress, tearing it as they both rolled over the edge of the dock into the water.

Without a second thought, I dived in after them. I was a man possessed. Dickie had hold of Stephanie and he wouldn't let go, so I punched Dickie right in the nose. I had wanted to do that for a very long time. He let go and grabbed his bloodynose, and I pulled Stephanie to shore, kicking and screaming. Truth be told, I probably saved Dickie's life.

Once I had delivered my bride safely back to the dock, I went back in search of Dickie. He was underneath the dock, hanging tight to one of the iron supports. He refused to let go, and I considered punching him again, but when Gazarra dangled a pair of cuffs over the edge of the dock for me, I couldn't resist. I cuffed Dickie to the iron support he was clinging to. When the tide went out, he'd literally be hung out to dry. I warned him that if he made so much as a sound I was going to leave him there till the next high tide.

I swam back to the edge of the dock and Gazarra pulled me up. I reached out and grabbed Vinnie and threw them back in the water on the other side of the dock and didn't let him out until he had found Steph's bag. She snatched it back from him, poured the water out, and dug out her cell enough, it was toast.

"Don't worry," Bernie told her. "I've got you covered, remember?"

This got Stephanie to smile, at last.

"We're still going to do this," I told her, taking her by the hand, and leading her back down the dock. Juniak had been talking to my mother, apparently for some time. He had been nodding in agreement. But now he resumed his place, and even though we were dripping wet, our clothes were torn, and we could all hear Dickie crying beneath our feet, the moment felt right. This marriage was not going to be sugar coated. But it was going to last through any disaster, I thought.

That's when I noticed her earrings. She was wearing the earrings that I bought back for her.

She saw me looking at them, and she smiled radiantly. "When I wear these, I'm always going to remember all the things that you gave back to me that I thought Ihad lost forever."

Grandma Bella and Stephanie's mother came rushing up at the last second.

"Here, Stephanie, dear. Put this in your shoe," Mrs. Plum told her, pressing a shiny new penny in her hand.

"I want you to borrow this," Grandma Bella said, holding out a seashell pendant. "It was given to my grandmother on her wedding day, in Sicily. My grandfather was a fisherman, and he found this shell and had this pin made forher for their wedding day. It was very romantic. I'll tell you the whole story someday," she said, tucking the pin into Stephanie's hand.

Just then, Connie and Lula realized what was going on. They rushed up to Steph with a blue garter and, turning her from both me and the crowd, slipped it on her leg under the dress. "Can't forget that!" Lula said.

"It's tradition," Stephanie said, seeing the look of concern on my face. "I didn't have time to prepare, you know. A bride is supposed to have something borrowed, something blue, something shiny and something new."

I was sick and tired of hearing about wedding traditions, but I could see all the fuss they were making over her was making her happy, so I smiled, took her hand, and we took our places once more. Mooch and Gazarra were standing with me and Lula and Connie were standing with Steph.

Juniak was all smiles as he began. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony, and in so doing, we reflect on the state of all mankind as we await our Savior's return."

"This doesn't sound like the short version," I whispered to Juniak.

"Your mother said you would prefer something religious but non-traditional," he whispered.

"What does that mean?" I asked.I shot a look at my mother. She was smiling in a very self-satisfied way. I grit my teeth, prepared for anything, but not wanting to spoil this moment. So, I looked back into Stephanie's deep, blue eyes and decided to weather the storm.

"Throughout his ministry on Earth, Jesus taught using parables. A parable was a fictitious story used to demonstrate a moral or religious principle. This was a Jewish teaching style. Jesus was a Jew, and he taught the common Jewish people by comparing religious concepts to their familiar cultural customs and traditions. Much of what was commonplace in the days of Jesus is not familiar to us today.

"As Jesus and his disciples sat together in the upper room celebrating the Passover supper in Jerusalem, Jesus surprised the men by ordering them to observe a new, and quite unexpected symbolic tradition; one that only a first-century Jew would recognize as a wedding vow.

"When a Jewish man came of age and was ready to take a wife, his father and the father of the bride would meet together to discuss the "bride price". The young lady would be working in her father's house, so to give her up in marriage would mean a financial loss to the family.

"Once the price was decided, a vow was exchanged. The groom would drink from a cup of wine, and then he would offer it to the young woman. This custom was a public way of making a covenant. The man was saying that he was willing to give up his life for his bride. He pledged to protect her and take care of her needs as if they were his own. The woman accepted, and sealed the engagement by drinking from the same cup. This was symbolic of the two being united as one. From that moment on, the bride was referred to as 'one who has been bought by a price'. The couple was now engaged."

Juniak walked to the punch table where a bottle of wine had been deposited as a gift. He poured the wine into one of the plastic cups and brought it back to us. "Joseph Morelli, are you willing to give up your life for Stephanie? Do you pledge to protect her and care for her needs as your own?" He handed me the cup.

I was stunned. We hadn't even talked about the ceremony. I reached out and took the cup, trying to absorb what he had said.

"I do," Juniak whispered, prompting me.

"I do," I said loudly enough everyone could hear me. I was hoping this really was the short version. Maybe we were going to make it through this.

"Now, drink," he said. I tipped the glass and sipped the wine.

"Stephanie Plum, are you willing to accept Joseph Morelli as your husband? Are you willing to give up your life in exchange for his? And do you promise to care for his needs as your own?"

"I do," she said, and she accepted the cup from me as I handed it to her. She looked me in the eye, and then drank deeply from the cup, having turned it so that her lips were touching the cup in the same place that my lips had been. I was surprised but deeply moved by this unexpected bit of ceremony.

Juniak continued, "Now, dear friends, this Old Testament couple was now betrothed, and for all purposes considered to be married, but this was only the beginning of the wedding process. They each returned home to their own families. They would not live together for at least a year. The groom would return to his father's house, often in a neighboring village. He would then begin to build a suitable house for his bride. Usually, this house was built connected to his father's house or to the complex of houses that belonged his father's family. Only when the couple's new house was finished could the groom return to claim his bride. However, the work would only be considered finished when the young man's father approved it. No one, not even the groom, knew when he would return for his young bride."

Juniak walked past us and approached Frank. "Mr. Plum, I understand that you are willing to serve in the stead of Rocco Morelli as Joseph's father, is that right?"

Frank was obviously so unprepared for all this as I was. He considered for a second before nodding.

"Have you inspected the home that Joseph has provided for Stephanie?"

"Yes," he answered, standing up before all the people.

"And do you find it to be acceptable?"

"Yes, I do," he said, nodding to me his satisfaction with the little houseboat.

"Thank you," Juniak said, patting Frank on the back as Frank sat back down. Juniak returned to his place and continued.

"While the groom was away building their home, the bride waited with anxious excitement. She was busy learning all she would need to know to run her own household, gathering things she would need, and making plans. She and her bridesmaids were to be ready for the groom's return at any time. He would come without warning, you see, and she wanted to look beautiful and to be dressed appropriately for their long awaited wedding day. She needed to be packed and ready to leave for her new homethe moment the feasting was over."

At these words, Stephanie's eyes fell, and she looked guilty about not being prepared to be a good housewife. But I squeezed her hand and she looked up at me as I smiled back down at her. I didn't need a cook or a maid. I just needed Stephanie. She knew me. She saw me for what I really was, and she still loved me. And I knew that I could live the rest of my life and still be a step behind her, struggling to catch up. I would never get tired of chasing her. She seemed to be reading my thoughts as she squeezed my hand back.

Juniak's polished speaking-voicedroned on. "Finally, when the groom's father declared the new house was ready, the groom and his wedding party would enter the city blowing a ram's horn. When the bride heard the trumpet sound, she knew her wedding day had finally arrived! It was a time for immediate celebration and joy. She was finally, FINALLY, going to her a new home, built for her by the man who sacrificed so much to have her in his life and who loved her dearly.

"Get up!" he commanded the audience. "Get up and shout! Clap your hands and stomp your feet, people! Let's make some noise! The groom is finally able to claim his bride!"

Someone had an air-horn, and everyone was yelling all kinds of stuff at us like, "It's about time!" and "That was a long walk down the aisle, man,". I heard Stephanie's nieces chanting "Stephanie and Joe, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" I thought this was really embarrassing, but the sound of all our loved ones cheering us was also a thrill. It was so unexpected. Stephanie was blushing to the roots of her hair, and I had to laugh. People a mile away could probably hear the noise.

After a minute or two, Juniak began speaking again, regaining control. "The community then celebrated with them seven days, a full week, feasting and drinking wine!"

"We don't have that much food! We'll have to call Pino's!" someone yelled. "Where's the beer?" someone else asked. It died down quickly, though, as people were shushing the offenders.

"When Jesus drank from the cup at the first communion meal, the disciples no doubt understood the significance of drinking from the same cup. In Luke 22:20, Jesus said, 'This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.' Essentially, Jesus was saying that he was the bridegroom, willing to die for his bride. As they broke the bread and ate it together, he explained that his broken body and spilled blood would be the 'bride price' required for the marriage to take place. Only those who accept this gift are considered to be brides of Christ, that is, to be claimed by him and protected by him.

"Now, if you think I'm making this up, consider this: the disciples loved Jesus, and they didn't want to accept what Jesus was telling them was about to happen, that he was about to die for them. In John chapter 13, Jesus comforted them by saying, 'Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust in me. There are many rooms in my Father's house; I would not tell you this if it were not true. I am going there to prepare a place for you. After I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back to take you to be with me so that you may be where I am.'

"Within hours of this covenant, Jesus fulfilled his word. He suffered scourging and crucifixion on the cross. He died of his own free will, to pay the 'bride price'. Once that price was paid, he rose from the dead, and continued to teach his disciples for many days before he returned to his Father's house in Heaven. And that is where he is right now. Jesus is quite literally building us a new place to live in his father's house in Heaven. Even Jesus doesn't know when God the Father will say it's enough. But when that day comes, he will return to claim his Bride, and we need to be ready! We'll hear him coming, because there will be trumpets and shouts of joy on that day!

"But today, we have this promise symbolized by the marriage of Joseph and Stephanie. They have longed for eachother, longed for this day! What a joy it is that they will be together for the rest of their lives, never having to part again."

Juniak turned to me. "Joseph, do you bring a ring as a token of your love?"

"Yes," I said, turning to Mooch. He slipped Stephanie's ring into my hand, and I handed it to Juniak. He held it up for everyone to see. Then handed it back to me as I slipped it slowly onto Stephanie's finger. A tear splashed on our fingers, surprising me. Stephanie was silently crying. She didn't know I had a ring for her to give to me. When I bought her rings, I bought a complete set. I reached my hand out and Mooch slipped my ring into my hand, and I gently laid it in her palm. She closed her hand around it and held it to her heart as she turned her big, blue eyes to mine. I was her hero yet again, and my heart filled pride.

"Stephanie, do you bring a ring as a token of your love?"

"Yes," she whispered, handing the ring to Juniak. Again, he held it up for everyone to see. Then he passed it back to Stephanie, and with trembling fingers she placed it on my finger.

"Beloved, let Jesus' words in John 15:12 act as an anchor for you as you begin your newlife together; 'This is my commandment: love one another as I have loved you.'

"And now, having witnessed the exchanging of vows, it is my great honor to pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

And just like that, it was over. I was stunned for a moment. I was a married man. I was married to Stephanie Plum. I had been so busy rushing around getting things done, going without sleep for yet another night,and now,as quickly as the ceremony started, it was over. I was out of plans. Everything was complete. I was complete.

I pulled Stephanie in to my arms and kissed her as cheers and shouts echoed on the water.

"May I introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Morelli!"

As we were about to be mobbed again, I held up my hands for silence. "While we have your attention, I have an announcement to make." Everyone sat back down and a low murmur broke out. Probably everyone thought Stephanie was pregnant. I smiled at that. "Effective this morning, I have resigned from the Trenton Police Department."

Stephanie gasped and turned to stare at me. "You gave up being a cop? Why, Joe? Not for me?"

I turned to her, still holding her hand. "I hoped that you would go into business with me."

She turned back to the houseboat and stared at the glass that read _Morelli & Morelli_. "You and me?"

"Who did you think I was going into business with? Mooch?" I said, laughing.

"Well, yeah," she said with a shrug. "It says _Morelli & Morelli_, not _Morelli & Plum_."

"I was hoping you wouldwant to take my name. I thought Stephanie Morelli had a nice ring to it," I said, pulling her close again. "Please," I whispered in her ear. "Be my partner in the agency. I'll let you work from home," I said temptingly.

Stephanie laughed. "Yes," she said. "I'd love to be your business partner."

"I have another announcement," I said proudly. "Stephanie Morelli has also resigned her position as Bond Enforcement Agent and has agreed to be my new business partner." Cheers erupted yet again.

At this news, Vinnie jumped up out of his seat in protest. "You ungrateful little tramp!" he yelled. "After all I've done for you! You can't do this! I just bought a bigger house because of you!"

Before Stephanie could respond, Connie and Lula were descending on him like a couple of harpies.

"What about me? You sayin' I ain't got no skills?" Lula demanded.

"What you've done for her?" Connie was screeching. "You nearly get her killed once a week, you greedly little ferret!"

"You're useless as a file clerk and as a bounty hunter," Vinnie told Lula. "Thank God I've still got my ace in the hole," he said, jabbing a thumb in Ranger's direction.

That got a deep, throaty laugh out of Ranger. "You know, Vincent…I haven't needed the income from hunting down your skips in a long, long time. I was only staying on because I enjoy the hunt and because I was helpingStephanie. But she doesn't need me anymore. So, it looks like you're going to have to come out of retirement and hunt those bad guys down yourself if you're going to keep bonding out that kind of scum."

"What? What?" Vinnie shouted, hopping around like a wounded bird. "You can't quit!"

"I just did," Ranger said firmly.

"Well, fine!" Vinnie screamed. "I still have…who? Joyce? Crap! All I have is Joyce? No, no, no! I'm a dead man."

"Joyce? No way. I'm not dealing with Joyce as your primo bounty hunter," Connie said. "I quit!"

"You can't quit! I own you!" Vinnie squealed.

"Oh yeah?" Lula roared. "Well, I quit too! Me and Connie are going to go work for Melvin."

"Yeah!" Connie said, and they turned on their heels and marched back to Melvin, who still had the camera rolling. If he didn't have a business of his own before, he certainly would after this. Everyone in the Burg was going to wantto buy acopy.

"How dare you insult me like this!" Joyce bellowed at Vinnie. She hauled back and punched Vinnie so hard he fell back and somersaulted into the water again. Joyce took off in a huff, stepping over Vinnie's wife who had passed out when she heard that Vinnie was going to be broke. Her father, Harry the Hammer, was sure to be notified the first time Vinnie missed a mortgage payment.

Tank and Big Dog pulled Vinnie back up onto the dock and escorted him and his wife back to their vehicle.

Melvin got a great picture of our hands on the cake knife, but the other pictures of the customary first bite of cake and champagne are not in Steph's scrapbook because she thinks she looked like a French poodle and I looked like a drowned rat.

Actually, he got a beautiful shot when I handed the bouquet to Steph. She was beautiful. That's the picture I keep in my head, my heart, and in my wallet.

_To be continued..._


	54. Chapter 54 Epilogue

_All characters named in this story were created by Janet Evanovich, except the rookie cops and the teen gang members and Jacob Stanton (the House Monster), and Patti Basatti (County Clerk), created by AutumnDreaming for this story. _

_All of Morelli's cop experiences in this story have been creatively adapted from the experiences of Ralph L. Dettweiler, former Sergeant of South Carolina Sheriff's Department, found at _

_Additional inspiration was gleaned from Charles Martin's novel Chasing Fireflies._

**Morelli's POV**

EPILOGUE

What I remember most about that evening, aside from the Frederick's of Hollywood box from Lula, and Connie, was Stephanie returning a certain electronic key fob to Ranger. He only got a peck on the cheek this time, and he gave her that look that said he was proud of her. Ranger gave her a DVD. We didn't dare to watch it till everyone left. It was a surveillance tape. We had to turn the volume all the way up. Then I realized what it was. At first, I thought he set me up, but then I realized he was proving my innocence. It was RangeMan footage of the time Terry Gilman and I were supposed to be working a federal case together, and she took the opportunity to make a move on me - in a tiny little negligee. I was clearly heard telling her 'no' and explaining that I loved Stephanie. Terry started throwing things and screaming and I had to dive out the motel window. Neighbors didn't hear the discussion, but they heard the yelling and saw me diving out the window and Terry barely dressed. Then the gossip mill went to work, and the story got around to Stephanie while we were sitting at her parents' table over dinner. She never believed me that it was work related. I just figured the less said the better. But, now, thanks to Ranger, I had proof, I had trust, and I was vindicated at last! 

Later that night, Stephanie and I opened gifts for about an hour. 

Mrs. Plum bought us an assortment of pots and pans, cake plates, and a huge Betty Crocker cookbook. We were only short the one that was somewhere beneath the boat. We'd probably find it later.

Grandma Mazur and Carl gave us the two stuffed dogs, one for each car. I shudder to think about that one. 

Frank bought us a black leather recliner and a large flat screen television with built in DVD and universal remote. He got a great deal from Bernie, who tossed in the surround sound as his part. I explained that we already had a recliner, but apparently the other recliner was for Frank, as was the television, I suspected. At least he would feel at home when they came to visit.

Joyce hadn't really given us a present, but she had been passing around flyers of Stephanie and me naked in a kiddie pool when we were too young for it to count. Everyone thought it was cute. I had never seen this picture before. I stuck one in a wedding frame someone gave us and sent Joyce a thank you note. I'm sure that made her day.

Valerie and Albert gave us their baby crib and a garbage bag full of baby girl clothes. I guess there was no convincing them we weren't expecting. We put them in storage…just in case.

Mary Lou bought us a very useful gift – an indestructible tube for keeping our marriage certificate. It's fireproof, waterproof, and best of all, it floats.

Kenny and Buckey got us a gift certificate to Marsillio's and Richie gave us $100 worth of free pizza coupons from Pino's, which came in handy for the Honeymoon, which we spent in our new home.

Mr. Kleinschmidt, Dillon, and the gang from Stephanie's apartment building pitched in and bought us two portable GPS units with one year's paid subscription. Stephanie thought it was greatat first, but it turns out it's not so great if you're driving on the water. All you get is: _"This is not a known street. Please return to the main road." _The first few times she drove off into the river, she had a hard time finding her way home. Once she ran out of gas and she ended up out of state before she washed ashore. But I found her. I had her on satellite.

Brian Simon's wife felt so bad for being mad at me for making her think Brian had been running around on her that when she thought I was dead, she had an attack of guilt because she had actually wished me dead. She felt so guilty, in fact,that Brian finally 'fessed up to the reason why I had done it. When she found out about Bob being pawned off on me, she was furious. Brian let her believe the dog ran away. She'd been worried sick about Bob for years. To make up for it all, knowing how much of my household Bob had probably eaten, she gave us a gift certificate for six month's of Doggie Daycare. That was great, because I wasn't sure how I was going to keep Bob from sinking the ship. He might chew a hole right through the hull.

Costanza, Big Dog and Gazarra didn't have time to go shopping, so they promised to get even as soon as possible, so I was watching my back on that one. There was no telling with that bunch. In the end, they paid my cost on the security system Ranger and I installed on the houseboat.

Mooner and Dougie gave Stephanie a grocery sack and whispered something about it being for later. I hoped it wasn't dope, but it turned out to be a Wonder Woman suit they made out of long underwear or something. Stephanie thought it was wonderful. It looked dreadful, and I wished she would quit wearing it under her clothes. I just knew that someday she was going to become delusional,rip off her clothes and go running down the street after a bad guy in her underwear.

My mom did give us the Morelli familysilver, but we never took it out of the box, and we never polished it. When she found out that we'd let ittarnish, she took it back and bought us a nice place setting for eightfrom Wal-Mart. That suited us just fine.

Grandma Bella never took the pin back, and Stephanie treasures it, keeping it in a lock box at the bank.

Dave and Scooter gave us a big piece of black marble with _Morelli House_ engraved on it for the front yard of Aunt Rose's house. Now the name Morelli, carved two feet highin stone and proudly visible from the street, has become a Burg landmark, and it makes us all proud.

And, you know, if I'd had my way...I mean, seriously...if I'd insisted on having my way, everything would have been different. I'd probably be living in Aunt Rose's house with a very unhappy woman instead of jetting around with Wonder Woman. I'd probably be cheating on her, just like I said I never would, and Ranger would probabably still be poaching. And Lino, Lucas and Joe would all be victims of a very broken judicial system instead of three of the leading art students in New Jersey.

Thanks to Stephanie Morelli, I learned how to live. I learned how to love. And I finally learned how to trust...and now...well.

Maybe Morelli isn't such a bad name after all…

THE END


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